


Dragon in the Blue Mountains

by LunartheDragon



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Childhood Friends, Dragon Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, M/M, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23914366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunartheDragon/pseuds/LunartheDragon
Summary: Jaskier is a white dragon, raised near Kaer Morhen and taught how amazing Witchers are, and accidentally finds a young Geralt abandoned by the road. They build a friendship that bonds them for life, even through the most challenging of times, and never look back.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 66
Kudos: 799
Collections: Polyamorous Relationships For the Win





	Dragon in the Blue Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> So this began as a Drabble for a friend and got waaaaaay out of hand. Hope you all enjoy? I had a lot of fun writing this!

Long before the humans, it was elves that ruled the Continent, and long before them it was dragons. Mighty beings, standing on four limbs with wings that blotted out the sky. Intelligent and cunning, capable of as much as any man.

Over the centuries, though, their ways have been lost, forced to hide away and be hunted like game.

Few retain and pass on the stories of the old days, but Jaskier’s mother was always different. Always talking and singing and teaching.

She sparkles white as freshly fallen snow, her breath icy flames, and she teaches Jaskier how to speak to both their own kind and to the sapiens that cover the world now. She teaches him how to shed his skin and emerge as something else, to hide from those that might do them harm.

Not everyone wants to hurt them, though, she tells him. Some are fair and kind, but it is rare.

She tells him of warriors, strong and fast and fierce, who protect and care for dragons instead of hunt them. “Witchers,” she calls them. They have many keeps across the Continent, with many schools, but her favorite is the School of the Wolves.

“They saved you, you see,” she hums, letting him ride in the divot of her back, between her wings, “When you were still just an egg. Your dear father was not so lucky, murdered by poachers.” She stands on the edge of a cliff, far, far up the mountains, so high snow still decorates the ground even in summer months. In the distance Jaskier can just see the tips of spires, barren of flags.

“That is why this is our home. Kaer Morhen, the fortress of the wolves, will always have our protection.”

“Can I go down and play with them?” Jaskier asks, giddy with the idea of playing with someone, ANYONE, other than his mother. He is tiny and excitable and already the cave feels too small for his imagination.

“No,” his mother immediately says, twisting her long, elegant neck until she can look back at her son. “Not until your adolescent scales grow in.”

Jaskier pouts and looks down. Scales do cover his body, but they are still thin and frail, glistening and too close to flesh to offer him proper protection. Eventually, he will shed and grow in proper scales, but that might be a few more years down the line...

“Yes, mother,” he mumbles and his mother nods, then turns away to continue showing her son the extent of their territory amongst the Blue Mountains.

~*~

Jaskier doesn’t wait long to disobey his mother.

He is small with a curiosity that grows bigger than his body and the cave he calls home. So, he waits for his mother to fly off to hunt dinner before he slips away.

He promises himself he will, at least, not go to Kaer Morhen, no matter how curious he is, and instead begins the exciting adventure of running through the trees. He tumbles over fallen logs, giggles crossing babbling creaks, tiny claws scrape while he clambers up rocks.

It is a true adventure, he thinks, as he goes further and further down the mountain, sniffing at every new smell, listening to every new sound. He whistles back at birds, trying to mimic their songs, before a new sound that doesn’t quite fit catches his attention.

He’s quite far down the mountain now so there’s no telling what the sound could be from - there’s so much more life down here - and he’s quickly hurrying towards it in excited curiosity.

He tries to be sneaky, stalking like his mother tried to show him, but his limbs are uncooperative and his focus is more on the sound than what noise he’s making.

There’s a path ahead, green grass beaten down into dirt, and sitting just on the other side is a... Jaskier gasps.

A human!

A... tiny human. Wait, aren’t humans supposed to be bigger than that? They look like they might be only a tiny bit bigger than Jaskier himself.

Oh... maybe a human child?

They are sitting on the ground, knees pulled up to their chest and arms wrapped tightly around themself. Their face is pressed to their knees and every few moment a pathetic whimper and sob emerges from them, their whole frame shaking.

It only takes Jaskier a moment to realize something is wrong.

“Hey...” he says, using the language his mother had painstakingly taught him that humans were supposed to be able to understand.

The child lurches then looks up, big, hazel eyes rimmed with red and tears pouring out. There is a shock of chestnut hair on their head, messy with leaves and twigs in it, and a bruise is blooming on their cheek. They frantically look around for the source of the voice.

Slowly, Jaskier slips out of the bushes on the other side of the path, his own, blue eyes big and thoughtful. The human child immediately jumps back onto their feet, backing away, and a new sob escapes their mouth.

“P-please don’t eat me!” the human whimpers.

“I’m not gonna eat you!” Jaskier startles, a little taken aback, before sitting back on his haunches and tilting his head. “I heard you crying. Are you okay?”

The human child sniffs, still staring, before taking a tentative step forward. “My... My mama, she... She told me to wait here but she hasn’t come back...”

“How long has your mama been gone?” Jaskier asks, concern filling his chest.

The human child shrugs, helpless, their bottom lip quivering, and Jaskier looks around. What could have happened to their mother? This was a dangerous mountain range, it wasn’t safe to walk off alone or leave a child on their own.

“Wanna go looking for her? I can’t fly yet, but I’m really fast!” Jaskier offers, standing back up and moving a bit closer.

“Mama said not to follow her...” the human reaches up to rub the back of their arm over their nose, new tears building in their eyes and it makes Jaskier frantic and uncertain.

“Maybe she’s just off hunting? That’s what my mother is doing,” he says, moving closer again and the human shrugs tiny, shaking shoulders.

“M-maybe...”

“Do you want me to sit with you until she comes back?” he offers.

“You... You promise not to eat me?” the human sniffs, looking at the tiny dragon with big, frightened eyes.

“I promise!” Jaskier says with as much conviction as he can, yet still the human looks unsure. Then, slowly, they move forward as well and sit back down on the cold earth.

“Okay,” they whisper and Jaskier swiftly joins them, curling tightly around where they sit like how his mother does when he has nightmares or thunder shakes their cave. He sets his head in the human’s lap, trying to squeeze their fears out of them.

It doesn’t take long before the human is curling down, arms wrapping around Jaskier’s head and neck, and their face buried in his scales. They aren’t weeping anymore, but they cling like their life depends on it and their body shakes.

“I’ll keep you safe,” Jaskier promises after a few beats, “I promise! I’m going to be guardian of these mountains so it’s my job.”

“Do... Do you have a name?” the human asks, still clinging, and sniffs loudly.

“Of course I do! I’m Jaskier! Who doesn’t have a name?” Jaskier huffs, but the human stills suddenly.

“I... I don’t...” the human whispers, which makes Jaskier raise his head, dislodging the human’s grip but not moving away. His blue eyes are wide in shock.

“What?! But, you need a name! Everybody needs a name!”

“Mama hasn’t given me one yet...” the human whispers back, looking down at the ground.

“Well, she should have! You need a name! What was she thinking? Is this normal for humans?” But Jaskier’s rant is cut off by his own gasp of realization and his lips pulling into a bright smile, showing off his small, sharp teeth. “You can do what Witchers do! They are so cool. They pick their own names, that’s how cool they are! You could do that!”

“Pick my own name?” the human asks, looking up at Jaskier with a furrowed brow, but a thoughtful tilt to his head. “I... don’t know any good names...”

“Sure you do! What about a hero? I love heroes. They have the coolest stories. Who is your favorite hero?”

“Um...” the human glances away, fingers fidgeting anxiously. “I don’t really know any... But... there’s this baker back home who doesn’t make mean faces at me like everyone else. He even gave me a loaf of bread once.”

“Weird hero, but why not! What’s his name?” Jaskier twists a little closer in his excitement, snuggling up comfortably with the human as his tail curls around one of the human’s ankles.

“I think... It started with a ‘guh’ noise... Geralt?” the human twists his fingers anxiously as he glances back at Jaskier. “I could be Geralt?”

“Geralt... Geralt...” Jaskier tests out the sound of the name before beaming at the human, a nervous smile slowly blooming on their own face. “I like it! Well, nice to meet you, Geralt!”

“Nice to meet you too, Jaskier...”

~*~

It isn’t Geralt’s mama who finds them, unfortunately. It is with a heavy beating of wings that Jaskier’s mother lands before them, her green eyes narrowed and furious.

Geralt doesn’t even respond, however, curled tightly against Jaskier and shivering, his eyes squeezed tight.

“Mother!” Jaskier says before she can lecture him, “You have to help Geralt! His mama hasn’t come back yet and now he won’t answer me!” His own eyes are beginning to fill with tears, desperate and confused, as his mother looks down at the tiny human curled up with her son.

“Oh dear...” she whispers and she sounds so sad. “Get on my back, my love. We’ll bring him to the Witchers.”

“But his mama!” Jaskier protests.

“I do not think his mama will be returning.”

And so he clambers onto his mother’s back and she scoops up the tiny, shivering human in one of her front claws before taking off. They take Geralt to the gates of Kaer Morhen, where a few big, yellow-eyed humans come out to meet them.

Few words are exchanged, the big humans taking Geralt when he is presented to them, and Jaskier’s eyes stay glued on his shivering form even when his mother takes flight.

“Is Geralt going to be okay?” he asks when they land in their cave.

“He will be...” his mother sighs, “This is his home now, and that will be his family. They will do what they can.”

“What about his mama?” Jaskier asks, eyes wide, but his mother doesn’t reply, only staring ahead at nothing, something churning in her eyes.

It won’t be until many years later until Jaskier realizes it was fury.

~*~

“That sword looks really big for you,” Jaskier remarks as he perches at the very top of a now familiar boulder. Just below him is a clearing, decently sized, and a comfortable distance both from his cave and Kaer Morhen.

Standing in the middle is Geralt, larger than when Jaskier first found him, but still gangly and pouty with messy, brown hair and too-large hazel eyes. He’s dressed in leathers and attempting to heft a blade in front of him, his arms shaking.

“I have,” Geralt huffs, “to get,” another huff, “used to it.” With a loud grunt and sigh the human lets his arms fall, sword digging into the ground where he can lean on it and catch his breath. “I need to be as strong as possible for the Trials,” he growls after a few beats, then raises the sword again.

Jaskier watches in silence for a few moments as Geralt attempts to go through movements with the sword. “How long have you been out here?” he eventually asks, hopping down off the boulder and sitting in the grass. He’s grown a little too, since he first met Geralt, but humans grow faster and stop sooner, according to his mother.

“Since morning practice ended,” Geralt grunts, not looking over.

“That was hours ago...”

Geralt doesn’t give a real answer, just grunts around the strain in his arms.

“You need a break, Geralt,” Jaskier says.

“I need to practice,” the human shoots back and Jaskier rolls his eyes before standing.

Despite now being smaller than Geralt, Jaskier’s small body still packs a wallop when he goes charging at his friend. He leaps and collides with Geralt’s back, knocking the breath out of him, before clinging to the leathers with his claws as they both topple over.

“Jask!” Geralt exclaims, clearly furious, the sword sliding away in the grass. “I was holding a sword!”

“And now you aren’t,” Jaskier laughs, still clinging to Geralt’s back as the human scrambles to stand. It isn’t hard for him to gain his balance with a tiny dragon clinging to his back, this entire situation familiar to them both.

“You could have been really hurt,” Geralt continues, “and your mother would have iced me!”

“No she wouldn’t have! She likes you too much!” Jaskier continues to laugh, nuzzling his muzzle against Geralt’s neck, making the human squeak and try to squirm away from the ticklish action.

Jaskier still wasn’t allowed near Kaer Morhen, not with all those Witcher trainees and their weapons and Jaskier’s still-squishy hide. However, that didn’t stop him and Geralt from meeting up in the woods.

“When do you have to take those Trial thingies?” Jaskier asks, shifting around to avoid Geralt’s hands as he tries to grab and pry the dragon off.

“In two weeks,” Geralt grunts, walking around aimlessly as he swats at the dragon.

“How long will I have to wait for you?” Jaskier ducks from a grabbing hand only for the other one to sneak around and grab his tail. He yelps as Geralt finally manages to pull him off and dangle him in front of him.

“I don’t know, Jask,” Geralt rolls his eyes and the dragon wiggles until he can hop to the ground and stick out his forked tongue.

“Ugh, but I’m going to be so bored!”

“Tough,” Geralt squats down and pokes harshly between his eyes, smirking when Jaskier yelps and leans away from the rude finger.

They end up sitting beside each other in the grass, Geralt catching his breath and Jaskier staring up at the clouds.

“You’re going to be a Witcher,” Jaskier whispers, the awe of the situation setting in.

“If I survive,” Geralt snorts, strangely unfeeling in the face of his possible demise.

“You will,” Jaskier looks over at him, “You’re the strongest person I know!”

“I’m the only person you know,” Geralt shoots back, but there’s a pink rise to his cheeks.

“Nuh-uh! I know Eskel, remember? You introduced us and he called me a lizard and I bit him,” Jaskier puffs out his chest and a giggle escapes the human.

“Setting the bar kind of low.”

“Never,” Jaskier says, honesty dripping from his voice and it stills Geralt. “I may not know many people, but I know you’re really amazing, Geralt.”

The pink in the human’s cheeks darkens and his eyes widen, before he swiftly looks away and clears his throat and they go back to sitting in the grass in silence.

~*~

“You’re so whiny!” Geralt laughs, louder than he has in a very long time, as he sits on the floor of Jaskier and his mother’s cave. The young dragon, having now grown to about the size of a Great Dane, lays right beside the young adult his human friend has become.

Jaskier makes a long, whining sound until Geralt’s blunt nails return to scratch at his flaking skin.

“You have no idea how torturous this is,” Jaskier drawls out, flopping onto his back so Geralt can get to his belly.

Geralt snorts and, when Jaskier peaks up at him, he makes a show of running a hand through his snow white hair and eying his friend with cat-like, gold eyes. “Yes, no clue at all,” he drawls sarcastically.

It had taken a while before either of them were comfortable joking about what Geralt had gone through in his Trial of Grasses. Not only had the events been traumatic, but he had been subjected to even more than a regular Witcher would have been, leaving him bled of color with senses surpassing his brethren.

He’d been quieter, at first, and he still was. He didn’t avoid Jaskier, but for a while he didn’t seek the dragon out either.

It got better, eventually. They danced around each other, uncertain what was okay and what was not, but slowly finding the rhythm they had lost.

The day Geralt had joked he was one step closer to being part of Jaskier’s family with his new, white hair Jaskier had snapped, “You’ve always been part of our family!” and the uncertainty was over.

Geralt was so much stronger and faster now, able to keep up with Jaskier’s lengthening legs and track him with senses he had not, previously, possessed.

“When you go out on The Path you can have the title, ‘The White Wolf’,” Jaskier had said giddily as he and Geralt collapsed into the snow after an exhausting bout of wrestling.

“Vesemir says we need names that make people trust us,” Geralt had replied, frowning, “White Wolf sounds too menacing.”

“Nuh-uh! It sounds cool!”

“I’m sticking with Geralt, anyway,” Geralt ignored his friend’s indignation, “and I’m adding ‘of Rivia’ to make me seem familiar.”

Jaskier had snorted at that. Witchers, as heroic and cool as they were, he now knew to be so weird. “Have you ever been to Rivia?”

Geralt hesitates and his lips twist in a way Jaskier now recognizes as his new form of “blushing.” Witchers don’t blush, physically can’t, but Geralt isn’t exempt from telling facial expressions. Not yet.

“No... But Adon of Carreras has never been to Carreras, either,” he defends making Jaskier grin and laugh.

And today they both rest inside Jaskier’s cave.

It isn’t new for Geralt to come into the cave, but majority of the time they are meeting out in the woods or the rocky cliffs of the mountains. Today is special, though. Jaskier had been itchy and scratching and flaking for nearly a week by that point, a sure sign his baby scales were being shed and his adolescent ones would be growing in soon.

Geralt, being the heroic Witcher-in-training that he is, had convinced Vesemir to allow him to come up to the cave for a few days to help with the process.

Which really just consisted of scratching Jaskier where he couldn’t properly reach.

“What color scales do you think I’ll have?” Jaskier asks during a lull from his itching, his skin a patchwork of translucent and dead, brown scales and pink skin.

“White,” Geralt grunts and smirks when Jaskier smacks him with his tail.

“But what _shade_! Mother said my father had grey-white scales. I got his eyes, but I think I’d prefer mother’s sparkly, pure white scales. I’d look far more elegant,” Jaskier rattles on. With the promise of new, proper scales finally growing in Jaskier had found himself rather obsessed with how he might end up looking. He constantly rambled to Geralt and his mother about scale colors and how his adult horns would look and wing patterning. He wanted to look elegant as well as powerful, just like his mother.

“There is nothing about you that is elegant,” Geralt huffs, snickering when Jaskier smacks him, again, with his tail.

“Maybe not yet! But I will be!” he announces firmly.

“Sure, sure, you grow up to look very fearsome...” Geralt shrugs, reaching down to scratch a place on Jaskier’s haunches his back claws had begun to reach for, “And then you open your mouth and dash any fear you thought you made.”

“Excuse you, Geralt _of Rivia_ , but when I open my mouth I will be spewing ice and frost. I will inspire fear and awe amongst those who threaten us!”

Geralt is quiet for a moment, still scratching idly at his friend, before his golden eyes are turning to Jaskier with surprise and confusion. “Us?”

“Well... Yeah!” Jaskier huffs, shifting to sit up and give Geralt a bewildered look. “When you go on The Path. You realize I’m coming with you, right?” When Geralt remains silent, still looking surprised, Jaskier puffs up and spreads his wings. “The White Dragon and his faithful sidekick, Geralt, the White Wolf! Traveling the Continent and saving those in need! It’s a hero’s story for the ages!”

Geralt chokes on his own spit, already shaking his head. “If anyone’s a sidekick, it’s you,” he snorts, looking away, but Jaskier sees his lips pinch and twist, the corners curving in an attempt at a smile.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, my friend,” Jaskier grins back at him, tail curling around the Witcher’s hips where he sits.

The smile quickly drops, however, as a new wave of itches overtakes him and he whines miserably, rolling around on the harder sections of floor, while Geralt laughs at his plight.

~*~

Jaskier’s scales are a bluish-white, in contrast to his mother’s pure white, and rather than sparkle like freshly fallen snow they shine like ice or a polished blade.

They come in a little uneven, but as he grows and ages and matures they will right themselves as they grow thicker and thicker with every shedding.

They also usher in a new age for the young dragon as he is finally, finally, given permission to venture to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt is stoic and serious when Jaskier arrives, but the dragon can see the excited jitter to his friend’s leg that he tries desperately to hide. They are both just as excited by this new experience.

The Witchers are a rough and tumble group, and Jaskier does get tussled around some, and perhaps his mother truly had been wise to keep him away until his thicker scales came in, and Jaskier finally gets to see how they train.

He also gets to meet some of the other Witchers. Eskel calls him a lizard again, but this time manages to leap away from the responding snap of teeth. He also meets the other two Witchers that survived the Trials along with Eskel and Geralt, Gascaden and Clovis. Clovis completely ignores Jaskier, however, while Gascaden offers a quiet, hesitant wave before hurrying off to train.

“Come on,” Geralt eventually says, after all the Witcher teachers have greeted Jaskier and told him what he is and is not allowed to do in their keep, and they hurry up the battlements.

“This place is so lively!” Jaskier comments as they both settle on the edge of the wall surrounding Kaer Morhen, Geralt’s legs dangling off the edge while Jaskier perches on top of the merlon beside him.

“It’s winter, so most Witchers return here to wait out the season,” Geralt explains with a shrug. “I think it’s kind of loud...”

“I love it!” Jaskier announces, looking back at the bustling courtyard where some of the Witchers spar with each other.

“You want to trade? You can live here and I’ll sleep in the nice, quiet cave,” Geralt jokes sarcastically and Jaskier snickers at him, looking back over the landscape that Kaer Morhen sits above.

It’s a beautiful view. It almost feels like paradise.

~*~

“But mother!”

“No buts!” Jaskier flinches back from his mother’s raised voice. “We have had this conversation before and my answer is still the same. No!”

“But Geralt will be going off on his Path soon! I want to go with him! So we can protect each other!” Jaskier whines, hopping after his mother as she walks along their territory, checking the scents and markings for intruders.

“He is a fully fledged Witcher now, my love, he can protect himself just fine while you remain here to begin your own training,” his mother says firmly, sniffing at a track in the snow and determining it just to be animals.

Jaskier, at this point, was about a head taller than Geralt’s new, red mare.

(”Did you seriously name your horse after a fish?”

“Shut up, Jask, Roach is a great name.”)

The nubs atop his head were beginning to lengthen into proper, white horns, his scales and claws were thickening, and his wings were growing more and more every day, patterning beginning to take form on the undersides. His mother’s wings were devoid of patterning, just as pure white as the rest of her, but Jaskier had not had the same fate. Darker blue speckles had begun to form on the edges of the thin membrane, slowly getting darker and darker.

Jaskier would soon be able to begin flying practice and, shortly after that when his breath sac fully developed, he could start perfecting his ice breath. It was exciting, and one more step towards becoming a guardian for these mountains...

But it also meant he wouldn’t be allowed to leave.

“These mountains are your home. Your duty,” his mother had said, “I’m sorry, my love, but Geralt must go on his Path alone. Your responsibilities remain here.”

This was not one of his mother’s rules he could easily disobey. He couldn’t slip away for the day and devise up a clever lie to lessen the punishment. He couldn’t pretend like he’d never been gone.

He would have to stay and bid his best friend farewell, until the Witcher decided it was his time to return.

It made Jaskier feel just a bit empty inside.

~*~

The first winter after Geralt heads off on his Path, Jaskier keeps an eye on The Witcher’s Trail for familiar, white hair.

He’s grown even bigger as he’s begun his training, wings large enough to carry him in a glide, horns thin and long, and capable of puffs of blue “fire” that leave frost where they land.

He’s eager to reunite with his old friend and show off his new abilities and hear all about his adventures, and the second he spots a red mare coming around a curve in the path Jaskier is taking a mighty leap. He spreads his wings and glides down to the earth, a high-pitched, youthful roar attempting to leave his throat.

Geralt halts, looking up, as Jaskier lands in front of him. “Geralt! I am so happy to see you, my friend!” Jaskier giddily exclaims, refraining from rushing forward and spooking the horse.

His grin fades, however, as Geralt says nothing. The Witcher stares at Jaskier, taking in his growing form, before sliding off Roach. He turns, walking through the thickening snow, and before Jaskier can realize what’s going on Geralt is wrapping his strong arms around the dragon’s neck.

“Geralt?” Jaskier questions, startled by the reaction, but he can’t see Geralt’s face where it is pressed into his scales. He curls his head down, long neck arched over his friend’s shoulder, and presses his muzzle to Geralt’s back, both questioning and comforting.

“I am...” Geralt begins, then takes a deep breath, readjusting what he was about to say. “It is good to see you, Jaskier.”

“It is good to see you too,” Jaskier replies, and finally he sits back on his haunches and curls his tail and wings around his friend, blocking out the sharp wind and pressing them both as close as possible.

“I need to get Roach to the stables,” Geralt eventually says, pulling away, and looking up at Jaskier. His golden eyes look tired.

“Join mother and I in our cave. She won’t admit it, but she’s really missed you, too,” Jaskier smiles and, tentatively, Geralt offers a small smirk back and nods.

Geralt doesn’t join them in their cave until the following evening, citing chores that needed to be done, but when he does step in and take a seat on the ground pressed to Jaskier’s side, Jaskier’s mother gives him a look with far too much understanding.

“The life of a Witcher is a difficult one,” she says softly, offering Geralt a torched pheasant. Neither dragon was a spectacular cook, but they had learned how to make a fire and set meats above it long enough until they were safe for human consumption. Bland, but edible.

Geralt takes the pheasant without complaint.

“Vesemir warned us. Said people saw us no different than the monsters we killed. As necessary evils,” Geralt whispers, the words tumbling out like if he doesn’t say them now, he’ll be unable to later. He was a quiet man, but this seemed like it was a chore to speak so much.

“But Witchers are heroes!” Jaskier immediately exclaims, eyes wide in shock as he watches Geralt lower his head and sag.

“I wasn’t prepared for how they treated me. I should have been, but I wasn’t,” he mumbles, so quiet it almost can’t be heard.

“But... You’re a--”

“I’m not a hero, Jask!” Geralt is suddenly standing, scowl curling his lips, and eyes aflame. He glares at the startled dragon, fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. “They called me monster and freak and mutant! I’m not a hero! I’m--”

Geralt is cut off as Jaskier’s mother shifts forward from where she lays only a few yards away. She presses the top of her long, angular head, nearly as long as Geralt is tall, into the Witcher’s chest.

“You _are_ a hero,” she says firmly, “All Witchers are. It is not your fault that people are so blind to the truth.”

Jaskier is up and curling around Geralt as well, not hesitating in the face of his friend’s outburst, and rumbling deep in his chest. Geralt, hands falling limp at his sides, presses his forehead to Jaskier’s neck.

“My dear, I am so sorry for what you must shoulder,” Jaskier’s mother says softly, her green eyes kind and caring as they look at the Witcher. “I wish there was an easier way.”

“It’s okay...” Geralt mumbles, sounding exhausted, and Jaskier leans back to look at him.

“No it isn’t!” he exclaims, aghast. “You’re amazing, Geralt! They shouldn’t treat you so poorly!”

“But they will,” Geralt shakes his head, looking off to the side so Jaskier can’t see his eyes. Jaskier is about to retort, already opening his mouth, but Geralt is abruptly continuing, his voice carefully void. “How is your training going?” 

Jaskier works his jaw a few times, frustrated and not wanting to drop this subject, but sighs in defeat. Geralt is already locking himself off, denying any further argument, and Jaskier will only make himself angry if he tries to push things now.

“It’s going well,” he finally allows, before barreling into an in depth description of all the things he has been learning since Geralt had to go away.

~*~

Geralt is quieter and quieter with every passing year, Jaskier notes. What would have once been proper explanations have fallen to one word responses. What would have once been sarcastic comments are grunts and huffs. What would have once been laughter, chuckles, smiles, is nothing more than a tiny tilt of the lips at best.

It worries Jaskier.

The other Witchers come and go from Kaer Morhen semi-regularly, but Geralt only makes his returns in the winter, when he is forced.

Still, despite all that, they are friends. They still meet out in the woods, or visit each other’s homes. They still wrestle and train and hunt together. Most of the talking is entirely on Jaskier’s side now, but it doesn’t lessen their interactions.

And, whenever Geralt does go quiet, completely silent in mind, body, and soul, Jaskier is there to press against him and keep him grounded in the here and now, begging some higher power to keep his best friend together.

~*~

It is some years later, during the winter months, that Jaskier does not go out to The Witcher’s Trail to welcome Geralt back.

It must concern Geralt, though, since he does not waste time stabling his horse - a new red mare but still named Roach - and hurries up to the dragons’ cave.

What he finds there has him skidding to a halt, his mouth falling open as he lays eyes on the two figures within the cave.

Standing there are not two dragons, but two humans, skin pale and smooth. One is a woman, tall and beautiful, with straight, black hair, wearing a flowing, sparkling white dress that surely cannot protect her from the cold, and decorated with emeralds.

The second is a man, taller but more youthful looking, with short, brown hair and bluish-white clothing that better suits a noble, covered with sapphire jewelry, shirt leisurely unbuttoned at the top to show off the top of a hairy chest and a light blue cape draped over one shoulder.

And their eyes... The woman’s a deep green and the man’s an icy blue. So familiar, and yet...

“Hello, Geralt, my dear,” says the woman, bowing her head in greeting, slowly, like she should have a longer neck.

“Hi there, Geralt!” says the man, brighter, happier, his cool appearance shattering with his warm grin. Geralt focuses on him and finds his breath knocked out of him.

“Jaskier...?” he says, shocked, and the seemingly human man grins even brighter. Warmer. If that were possible.

“Mother has been teaching me human transformation this year and I think I’ve finally got it!” Jaskier announces, and then he’s moving forward and coming up right in front of Geralt. He looks so different, but his eyes... His eyes are the same.

They’re close to the same height, maybe Geralt an inch or two taller, and Jaskier is so... so...

“What do you think? It took me a while to figure out what I wanted, but I think I’ve got it,” Jaskier babbles on, hands flailing about as he speaks, reminiscent of his expressive wing and tail movements.

Beautiful. Jaskier is beautiful.

“You look good,” he says instead, clearing his throat, and he catches Jaskier’s mother’s knowing gaze from over her son’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Geralt! Maybe now I can join you down to the surrounding villages every now and again,” Jaskier laughs and, much to the internal panic quickly taking root in Geralt’s chest, he hooks their arms together and drags the Witcher further into the cave. “Now! Tell me all about your adventures! I want to hear everything!”

Geralt swallows, his mouth suddenly quite dry, as he ends up sitting on the ground with the human-Jaskier clinging to his side, smiling at him and batting his long lashes.

Oh, Geralt was definitely screwed.

~*~

When the snows melt, Jaskier manages to convince Geralt to stay a bit longer than usual so that they can go down to the villages at the base of the mountains.

Jaskier is nearly vibrating out of his human skin as they head down, a few other Witchers with them who need to gather a few more supplies before heading off on The Path. For the most part Jaskier sticks by Geralt, but he flits about the tiny group on occasion to chatter with the other Witchers.

Gascaden is quiet like Geralt, but more in a shy manner than a brooding one. Eskel at least tries to keep up with Jaskier’s constant jabbering while a young boy, a Witcher trainee, actively avoids Jaskier’s eye. That last one’s name is Lambert, Jaskier knows. He’d been a tenacious and bitter child when he arrived at Kaer Morhen, but even the most broken of children couldn’t resist animals...

Which was probably why he’d gone rushing at Jaskier when he first saw him, declaring him a “puppy,” and hugged his leg.

Still, to this day, Jaskier never let him live that down.

When they finally arrive at the village and the Witchers go about gathering supplies from the reserved villagers, Jaskier hurries off to explore. There’s so many humans in one place, so much noise and laughter. They don’t seem overly bothered by the Witchers, most likely accustomed to their occasional visits to shop for provisions not readily found in the mountains, and Jaskier finds himself relieved that no cruel comments are being thrown around that he would surely have to correct.

He ends up meandering into the modest marketplace in the center of town, eyes sparkling as he takes everything in. There’s not much in way of food, since the winter months have just ended, but there are crafted goods everywhere. Weapons, furniture, knick-knacks, tools.

He’s standing alongside Eskel as he speaks to a blacksmith about a silver dagger he’d commissioned, Jaskier’s eyes trailing over modest-looking swords, arrows, hammers, until his eye catches on something one merchant over.

Their stall is full of wooden objects, some decorative, some not, but Jaskier’s attention is glued to that of a simple lute.

“Oh, wow,” Jaskier gasps, running a hand over the smooth, stained wood.

“What’d you find?” Geralt speaks up, appearing suddenly at Jaskier’s side. He was remarkably silent for a man his size, and he looks down at the lute that has drawn the dragon’s attention. “A lute?” he questions, a very slight tone of incredulity to his voice, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Yes, a lute,” Jaskier snaps, suddenly defensive, and shooting a glare at Geralt until his raises his hands in surrender. His eyes move back to the instrument. He’d always liked songs and music. He hummed whenever it grew too silent, whistled back at the birds, beat his tail to a rhythm only he could hear. His mother once called him a songbird in disguise, but he took it as a compliment.

He’d never even thought about procuring himself an actual instrument...

“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier breathes.

“It’s 500 orens,” gruffs the merchant standing at the stall and Jaskier startles, looking up.

“500 orens?” he repeats. He knew how money worked, his mother had taught him long ago so he would never make a fool of himself, but he wasn’t sure how much an instrument like this would normally go for. Was 500 too high or too low?

The merchant grunts an affirmative and Jaskier looks back down at the instrument, feeling disheartened.

“That seems a little high...” Geralt suddenly adds, head tilted, but the merchant gives him a long stare.

“600 orens,” the merchant says sharply and Jaskier can feel Geralt’s shoulders stiffen.

“Come on, let’s go,” the dragon is hooking his arm with Geralt’s, head down. “Not like I had anything to pay with to begin with,” he speaks more quietly so only the Witcher can hear. Geralt doesn’t respond with words, just grunts at him, but Jaskier is getting better at interpreting the noises.

‘Still an asshole,’ is what that grunt sounds like.

“Will you be joining me back up the mountain?” Jaskier asks once he’s accompanied Geralt around to gather the last of his supplies.

“No,” the Witcher grunts, looking through the saddle bags hanging off Roach. Then, eventually, he looks properly at his friend. “I need to head out now. Eskel and Gascaden, too. You’ll walk back with Lambert.”

“Ohh, he’s not going to be happy about that!” Jaskier grins wickedly and even Geralt scoffs a short chuckle, glancing off towards where Lambert is attempting to wrangle his own horse.

“Don’t pick on him too much,” Geralt says and Jaskier hums as if considering.

“Let me think about tha-- no,” he laughs brightly, “He’s the easiest to mess with now that you’re all broody and serious!”

Geralt looks at him as he laughs, that one corner of his lips pulling just slightly upward, before he’s stepping forward and pulling Jaskier into a tight, all-encompassing hug.

Geralt may not be as verbal as he once was, not as expressive, but what he lacked in words he made up for in action. He was so much more of a physical being, now, expressing more emotion in the twitch of a finger than he ever did before.

It was a new language to learn, but Jaskier was, and still is, eager to learn it.

He wraps his own, thinner, human arms around Geralt. He found he quite liked hugs when he was like this...

“Be safe, big guy,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing his nose into Geralt’s neck where he knows it tickles. Geralt squirms away, just a tiny bit, and squeezes Jaskier tighter in retaliation.

“See you next winter, Jask,” he mumbles back and for a few more minutes they simply stand there, together, holding each other as tightly as they can.

~*~

“My love, Jaskier, _please_ ,” Jaskier’s mother pleads, sitting back on her haunches and flinching periodically at every discordant noise her son makes. “Can you not take a break for a few moments?”

“I need to practice, mother!” Jaskier calls, sitting atop a raised stone in their cave, completely human, with a brand new lute in his hands. It had only been a year since he’d seen the one in the marketplace down the mountain, and now Geralt had returned with a most welcome gift. “How am I supposed to get better if I don’t practice?”

He attempts to play a chord progression but on the fifth pluck of his fingers the wrong note rings out, making his mother flinch and scowl. Jaskier cringes, peaking up at her from beneath his fringe. “Sorry...”

“It was very sweet for Geralt to get you that,” she says, even as Jaskier attempts the chord progression again, only slightly better this time. She flinches again. “But now I do fear for his common sense.”

Jaskier shoots his mother a pouty glare and she arches one, scaly brow at him, as if daring him to make a comment back, and he sags.

On the next twang of a painful note she finally snaps, pointing with her wing to the mouth of the cave and demanding he practice outside or not at all.

~*~

Geralt whistles, actually whistles, clearly impressed as he stands a few paces behind Jaskier. The dragon has gotten bigger and bigger over the years, capable of flying without tiring himself out, two horns growing thick and long atop his head, curving slightly towards each other at the end, scales thick and organized and shimmering.

Just ahead of them, where there had once been a flat cliff face reaching high into the air, is a mess of thick, sharp spikes of ice, curtesy of Jaskier’s freezing breath.

“And check this out!” Jaskier announces, preening under the attention, before throwing his head back and opening his mouth. A stream of blue “fire” erupts from his open maw, erupting upwards and compressing into shards and shards of ice that come raining down around them.

Jaskier raises one of his wings to shield Geralt, some of the shards bouncing off, and then he’s shifting to look back at the Witcher.

“Impressive,” is what Geralt says, looking up at the sky, before looking back at Jaskier.

The dragon is lean, like his mother, not the bulking mass other dragons might be. Still, though, he is strong, his wings wide and talons thick and sharp. His tail is longer than most, swift as a whip, and his spine is lined with a single trail of short, curved spikes. His face is thin and angular, coming to a point like a beak, and even like this he is...

Beautiful.

“Mother thinks I still need to practice,” Jaskier admits as he steps forward. As he walks, he shrinks, body shimmering and compressing around him until it is a human approaching Geralt. He still wears nice clothing, but he’s begun falling back to slightly more comfortable doublets. Still a gorgeous baby blue, with sapphires on his fingers, in his ears, and a new hoop he’s started wearing in his septum.

“Practice is important, even for masters,” Geralt says, his eyes tracking the human body as he comes closer.

“Well, sure, but she means practice with her! I get I still have more growing to do, but I want to travel with you already! I want to see the world and explore! I want to fight alongside you so we can protect each other... Like we said we would...”

“It was mostly you who said that,” Geralt comments and, in a rare show, offers a proper smirk at Jaskier. It makes the dragon falter, eyes catching on the movement, before he forces himself forward again. They stand chest to chest, nose to nose, and Jaskier smirks back at him.

“My point stands. I want to travel with you already. I want to see what your life is like outside these mountains...”

Geralt’s eyes soften, just for a moment, before they grow distant and he glances to the side. “No you don’t. It isn’t like the stories your mother tells. You wouldn’t like it.”

“Yes, I would,” Jaskier insists, so suddenly and firmly it makes Geralt look back at him. “I would,” he repeats, “because I’d be with you. You’re...” Jaskier swallows and for a rare, shocking moment he isn’t sure what to say, his words failing him.

He glances down and, slowly, carefully, he reaches out to take one of Geralt’s hands. This shouldn’t be as hard as it is, they’ve touched plenty before, but something feels different today. Something’s felt different for a long while, really, but he’s been too scared to approach it.

“You’re the most important person in my life, Geralt. I know it’s selfish, but I want to be with you all the time. I hate it when you leave and when you come back you seem so much sadder than when you left. I want to be there for you and try and make at least _something_ a bit easier.”

Jaskier looks back up and finds Geralt staring at him, catching each other’s eyes, and it makes Jaskier squirm. “You’re amazing, Geralt, and you deserve to be treated--”

He doesn’t get a chance to tell Geralt how he deserves to be treated because abruptly Geralt is surging forward and mashing their lips together. It is sudden and firm and their teeth bash together painfully but it doesn’t matter. Jaskier stands shocked, frozen, for all of three seconds before he’s pressing back, lips melding to Geralt’s desperately.

Neither of them is good at it - this is Jaskier’s first kiss and anyone Geralt pays to sleep with him don’t usually allow kissing - but it doesn’t really matter. They kiss and taste each other like a dam has broken, and maybe it has, and they honestly don’t care.

Hands cling to each other, pulling, not to remove clothing, but to drag each other closer and closer until their bodies meld as much as their lips.

They don’t come up for air for a long time, and after they do, they quickly dive back into each other, attempting to make up for time they hadn’t realized they’d been missing.

~*~

The Blue Mountains are Jaskier’s home and all he has ever known. Kaer Morhen is his family, in a way, and Geralt... Well, he doesn’t know if there is a specific term for what Geralt is. All Jaskier knows is that he is important. The most important.

It makes Jaskier giddy to imagine the upcoming winter months. The two of them hadn’t had time the last winter to fully explore this new thing they had discovered between them, but these next few months would be filled with promise for more, more, _more_.

It left Jaskier giddy and excited as he flew through the clouds, wind rushing past him, deep in the heart of the mountain range. 

He was going out more often, encouraged by his mother to stretch his wings, test his breath, and familiarize himself with their territory from his new vantage point. He, eagerly, took her up on that, having always been drawn to the pull and intrigue of the world outside their cave.

He would eat early with his mother, just as the sun was beginning to rise, before taking off to explore. He could hunt for himself now with mounting efficiency, at least enough for a snack when the sun was high, and he would often return home long after the sun had set, an animal carcass waiting for him from his mother.

It was good and freeing and the happiest he’d ever felt.

But it wouldn’t last.

~*~

There was no way for Jaskier and his mother to know about the inflammatory publications circulating through human society about their Kaer Morhen Witchers. They couldn’t have known about the mounting hatred growing far hotter than it ever had before. They couldn’t have been prepared for when it finally boiled over...

The sun had set, the sky dark, and Jaskier finally making his way back to the cave when he realized something was wrong. He was too far away to hear anything but there, between the mountains, was an orange glow that had never been there before. It looked like it must be coming from Kaer Morhen, but nothing like this had ever happened before.

Witchers were definitely not “party people.”

Confused and with mounting anxiety, Jaskier turns away from his own home and makes his way instead towards the keep, hoping he’s simply worrying over nothing. Perhaps this was just some new drill. Perhaps the resident mage in charge of the Trials had come up with a new spell.

But then the smell of smoke hits Jaskier’s nostrils.

Followed quickly by the screams.

The sound, the smell, and the sight of it all would haunt Jaskier’s dreams for centuries. He couldn’t stop flying, not with arrows and spells flying everywhere, but as he flew over the courtyards of the keep he witnessed wave after wave of human and mage alike falling upon his friends.

Bodies littered the ground, drenching the earth red with blood. The smell was vile, burning flesh and bile everywhere.

Screams - battle cries and pain and horror - filled the air as the mighty keep is lit aflame, smoke choking the sky, and Jaskier cannot help the cry of agony he lets out at it all.

Arrows and spells come flying towards him now that he’s been spotted, his lithe body weaving as best he can to avoid them, and his eyes look down at the destruction and death. He sees Gascaden and his familiar bulk, slumped against the wall, unmoving with what looks like the bolt from a ballista sticking straight through his center. In front of him is Clovis, fighting viciously and desperately against human and mage alike, but Jaskier watches in horror as an arrow wizzes through the air and lodges through his eye socket.

The scream he lets loose is nothing he has ever released before. The blue flames that billow out of his throat are massive and furious. Crashing blasts and deep roars leave behind massive trails of ice and frost, humans frozen in their steps only to be broken into pieces with a swing of his tail.

For a moment, one dreadful, hopeful moment he thinks he’s managed to help push the attacking forces back, a momentary lull in the decimation, but he thinks too soon.

Dragons are capable of absorbing magic, which means the bolt of lightning that strikes at Jaskier’s back only manages to startle and stun him momentarily. The bolt from the ballista in the midst of the human’s forces, however, pierces straight through his shoulder.

He tumbles down, down, down to the earth below with a shriek that rattles through the mountains, crashing in amongst the bodies of his friends, fire surrounding him.

For what feels like an eternity he lays there, the world around him moving faster than he can keep track off, the agony from the bolt lodged in his shoulder and from the fall leaving him writhing on the ground.

For one, lucid moment he wonders, “Where is mother?” She is the guardian of these mountains. She loves her wolves just as much as Jaskier does. She swore to protect them. Why isn’t she here to fight, too? Why isn’t she here to protect Jaskier?

Jaskier’s thoughts bleed into agony once more, however, when someone is suddenly there and ripping the ballista bolt right out of his shoulder.

“Get up, child!” yells a voice that he recognizes before the face comes into focus.

Vesemir. One of Geralt’s mentor.

“Get up, Jaskier!” the old Witcher yells even louder, shoving at the dragon until slowly, shakily, Jaskier manages to stumble to all fours. “You need to go! Now! Get your mother and--” but his next command is cut off when an explosion from a mage’s fire ball drowns him out. “Just go!”

Jaskier stumbles, still disoriented and terrified and in so much pain, but the shock must numb his mind and not his body because his wings are beating desperately until he is back in the air, wobbling and shaky. He crashes into the battlements as he flees, then crashes into the dirt and the trees and the earth. It is less of a flight and more of large, panicked leaps and glides.

When the cave comes into focus some of the pain in Jaskier’s shoulder fades, adrenaline heightening as he begins to call out.

“Mother! Mother! You need to help! The Witchers are--”

But as he tumbles into the mouth of the cave, frantic and desperate, salvation is the farthest thing he finds.

Because the attackers must have known a dragon looked after Kaer Morhen.

They must have known and planned for it. How else would they be cocky enough to pull such an attack? How else could they have managed to attack the keep without icy retribution from the skies? They would have had to have taken everything into consideration.

The large humans in thick army look like they’re doing something as mundane as collecting crops or eggs from chicken coops. They stoop with knives to cut away pieces and tuck them away in bags, observing them like goods in a marketplace, nodding, then going in for more.

They peel and meander and rummage, calm and proud.

The mound of meat and gore in the very center of the cave doesn’t even look like Jaskier’s mother anymore.

The shriek that rips from Jaskier’s throat tears through the cave, crashing and breaking the stone, and blue fire bursts free from every scale, horn, claw, until he is drenched and bleeding ice.

He shrieks and shrieks and shrieks, turning deeper and deeper until it is a roar that shakes the entire mountain range, shockwaves of freezing flame blasting outward over and over and over.

He roars as cascades of tears run from his eyes and freeze into icicles along his jaw.

He roars.

~*~

All that is left in the cave when Jaskier turns and flees, uncertain where he even intends to go, is bloody, icy powder and the frozen remains of the Last Guardian of the Blue Mountains.

~*~

He flees.

~*~

Eventually he must stop to tend to the wound on his shoulder, cleaning it at a river that runs through the mountains that he is not familiar with.

He has no way to mend it, so he hunkers down beneath a cliff face and waits, curling up tightly, and weeping.

~*~

He flies from the Blue Mountains the moment he is able. There is nothing left for him there. Even if any Witchers survived they will surely leave and never return. His family is dead. His friends are dead.

He doubts he will ever be able to see Geralt again.

It’s Jaskier’s fault, his mind begins to whisper the farther he flies. It is his fault for not being strong enough. For not training diligently, like Geralt and the other Witchers had. For not getting better when his mother encouraged him. For playing around and never taking anything seriously.

He could have been better. He could have done something.

It’s Jaskier’s fault and if any Witcher survived... they would surely despise him.

~*~

When he finally finds his way out of the mountains, Jaskier takes on his human form and slips from village to village. He is a silent traveler, not even the sound of music and laughter and warmth make him feel better.

He has no money, so he steals, but he doesn’t feel guilty. He has other things to hate himself over and he just... doesn’t care.

And when the world begins to freeze, winter setting in, it doesn’t matter to Jaskier. He simply keeps going.

He just doesn’t care...

~*~

He doesn’t know what village he’s in, nor does he care. It all means nothing to him.

He knows more about the human race, though. About their society. He’s had to learn by proxy, which is why he knows the person that approaches him in the tavern is something called a “bard.”

A musical person, who brings songs to the poor or wealthy, a source of entertainment and joy.

The one before Jaskier now is a dark-skinned girl with fluffy, black hair, rounded cheeks, and a green dress decorated with knitted, pink flowers. She smiles brightly at Jaskier, but doesn’t speak like she is performing anymore. She is likely just taking a break.

“You look dreadfully sad here in your corner,” she says, hands folded in front of her, a small harp loosely hanging from her fingers. “Are you okay, sir?” Her eyes are big but open and Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to lie or snap at her to make her go away.

“Not really, I’m afraid,” he says quietly and, when he sees the girl hesitate, he sighs and makes a motion at the chair opposite him. She quickly sits.

“Do you need help, sir? I’ve never seen you around these parts...” she says, voice soft, either naturally or to rest it for future performances. She must be local, as well.

“My life has simply taken a nose dive into the proverbial dog shite,” he says quietly, matching the girl’s volume.

“I’m so sorry,” the girl whispers, half to herself. “You don’t need to tell me anything, it’s your private life, but my name is Lilia. I may not be able to help much, but I hate seeing anyone hurting. Even strangers. So, let me know if you need anything, okay?”

Jaskier looks at her, the dead feeling in his chest shifting just a bit. Movement in his mind he had attempted to deaden.

“I’m Jaskier,” he offers back and, in an attempt for this sweet human, he offers a smile and she positively beams back.

She plays a few more songs, hardly a professional, but they are chipper and vibrant, filling up the tavern in a way Jaskier has never seen before. Yes, Lilia is impressive, but his attention is on the patrons. The atmosphere. The effect of music and story on these exhausted peasants.

It is mesmerizing.

~*~

Jaskier has never slept with anyone before, but a few days later Lilia is patient with him, leading him through what makes them both happy and sated.

She is sweet in bed just as she is in her songs and Jaskier makes sure to make it good for her, finding her reaction to be far more interesting than his own.

She knows he won’t stay, they even talked about it some before they began, but she still lays down with him and sleeps, at peace and trusting.

He leaves the next day, but the dead thing in his chest has loosened just that little bit more.

~*~

Oxenfurt awakens something within Jaskier again.

He had kept traveling and traveling and fleeing for a few more winters, time bleeding together. He takes a liking to taking a taste of the humans that are eager for pleasure, no matter their body parts or marital status.

He could probably be a bit more careful with that latter one, but there is a reckless and disconnected attitude to his actions now, even if, after each roll in the sheets, he feels a tiny bit less numb.

Perhaps it is because of this, this loosening within him, that when he finds himself in Oxenfurt he honestly feels alive again. Far from ever forgiving himself, but at least alive enough to push the guilt away momentarily.

He hasn’t sung in a long time and his lute was lost when he fled from his old home, but Oxenfurt makes him want to again. Makes him want to try.

He’s built up a small, personal fortune from his years and years of theft, enough to get him in to a few classes, and for a while he pretends that this is what he is. A human student striving to fill the world with music, stories, and life.

~*~

“Jaskier?”

The dragon in human form startles from his seat in the tavern, looking up for whoever called his name so suddenly. It doesn’t take long for him to zero in on the leathers and muscles and two swords that stand out in the frilly, Oxenfurt crowd.

“That is you, isn’t it?”

“Eskel?” Jaskier questions because... it couldn’t be. And if it really was then... why did the Witcher look so happy? Grinning at Jaskier as he hurries forward and--

Oh, yep, Jaskier’s getting hugged. Hugged so tightly he’s lifted off the ground and given one, good spin. When he’s set back down Eskel has both his hands on his shoulder and he’s smiling so big at him, slightly disbelieving.

“You’re alive. You’re actually alive! It is so good to see you again!” the Witcher says, startling Jaskier even further, because it shouldn’t be good to see him at all.

“Eskel... what are you doing here?” Jaskier manages just as he’s being maneuvered back to his table, Eskel taking a set so his back is to a wall and his golden eyes can focus on the dragon.

“Heard rumors about an incubus problem,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing, his grin still in place, “What I want to know is what _you’re_ doing here! After the attack,” Jaskier flinches, “we found your cave full of ice. We couldn’t tell what happened and when you never showed back up, we expected the worst.”

It’s like a switch being turned, Eskel’s expression, because one moment he is nearly glowing with excitement and the next he’s sagging, like he’s in pain. He looks at Jaskier, confused and desperate, like he just can’t understand something.

“Where have you been? When you never came back, Geralt...” Eskel stops himself and looks down at the table and a fist tightens around Jaskier’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He thinks he can hear his own and everyone else’s heartbeat at once, hammering at his ears, and he cannot find his words.

“Geralt was - is - devastated. We all were, of course, but you mean so much to each other... He--”

“You should hate me,” Jaskier snaps so suddenly, so painfully, he doesn’t realize he’s the one who says it at first, but then Eskel is staring at him, startled.

“Jaskier, what...?”

“It was my responsibility. I was supposed to defend Kaer Morhen, but I played around and wasted my time and when it came down to it...” Jaskier chokes, ducking his head, and he feels tears begin to pool in his eyes. “I failed and now so many are dead.”

“You can’t seriously believe that,” Eskel attempts to intervene, brows pinched, but Jaskier is on a roll now. So much having built up inside him with no way for him to safely release it.

“And my _mother_ ,” he gasps around his heaving lungs. “You didn’t... you didn’t see what they were doing to her! Skinning her, taking her teeth, horns, claws. _Harvesting_ her! Like she was livestock. And where had I been?” Jaskier finally looks back up at the Witcher, a frantic light to his blue gaze, and a hysteric laugh bubbles out of his throat. “I had been off flying. _Playing_. Like a child.”

He can’t say much more, his throat closing up from the tears, and Eskel stands. He shakes his head as he comes around to the dragon, hands finding their way to his shoulders again, and urging him to stand.

“No... No, no, this isn’t your doing. No one could have known what was coming,” he says, voice thick and low as he carefully maneuvers the shaking, crying man towards the tavern’s stairs. They head up to a room Eskel must have rented earlier, the space tight and uncomfortable but Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to care.

He’s set on the edge of a straw bed and Eskel crouches in front of him, hands on his knees.

“You didn’t do this. You didn’t cause all that death,” Eskel is saying, voice soft. “You did everything you could...”

“Who...” Jaskier gasps, gulping at air, “Who survived?”

A pause, a beat, just long enough for Jaskier to gain a bit more control and give Eskel a pleading look because, as much as the guilt eats away at him he has to know who of his former friends still lives.

Eskel sighs. “Vesemir’s the only one to survive the actual attack. Myself, Lambert, and Geralt are all alive because we were out on The Path at the time.”

Jaskier releases a shaky breath. Four. Four Witchers out of a bustling community. That’s all that was left.

“Come back,” Eskel whispers and Jaskier looks up sharply. “Come back to Kaer Morhen. We’ve all missed you.” The ‘especially Geralt’ part remains unsaid, but Jaskier hears it.

But...

“I can’t,” he whimpers, flashes of crumbling, burning bodies passing through his mind. The frozen remains of an ancient, loving beast. “I _can’t_.”

“Okay, okay,” Eskel is quick to placate, his eyes holding far more understanding than Jaskier expected. “Are you... Is Oxenfurt your home now?” he asks instead. A distraction.

Jaskier swallows and nods. “I’ve been taking classes. Plan to be a bard. Even got a new lute,” he says and gives a half shrug. “Impressed them so much two years back I basically have a free ride now, just have to do occasional seminars.”

“That’s remarkable,” Eskel says but Jaskier thinks he’s just trying to be nice.

Eskel was always the nice one, even when he was being a bit naughty.

“Thanks,” Jaskier whispers anyway.

Not much else is said, words uncertain and weighted where they once weren’t. Eventually, Jaskier bids his good-byes and heads off for his own room, feeling drawn and empty.

Two nights later Eskel slays an incubus.

One night after that the Witcher finds Jaskier and hugs him so tight, wishing him good-bye, and promising that they will see each other again.

When Eskel leaves, Jaskier can’t help but feel a little bit emptier.

~*~

He begins teaching fully at Oxenfurt a few months later, which comes with some spectacular perks.

One, a better salary. He buys himself all kinds of new outfits and fancy knick knacks, surrounding himself with beauty so he can ignore the ugly feeling always clawing up his throat.

Two, a small apartment on campus all his own. He doesn’t have much in way of personal effects, not at first, but he attempts to fill and decorate it with books and pictures and carvings. None of them mean much to him, but on the surface it’s... something.

Third, everyone knows where to find him.

He should have known Eskel would tell the other Witchers about him, and deep down he did know, but he had tried to ignore the panic that rose with the thought. Tried to ignore the burning need to gather up all his things and run.

He has responsibilities here at Oxenfurt and he’ll be damned if he plays coward yet again.

It isn’t until after winter, however, where he’s begun to believe that no one will come for him, that a heavy knock sounds at his door.

“Office hours aren’t until tomorrow, I’m afraid!” he calls, even as he gets up from his desk and heads for the door. “If this isn’t an emergency, could it wait?”

And then he opens the door.

And Geralt of Rivia is standing right there.

They stand there, staring at each other, for seconds, minutes, hours, he doesn’t know. Jaskier isn’t sure if he has frozen or if the world around him has. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing anymore.

Because he should have known, but he wasn’t prepared. He wasn’t prepared at all. A part of him had expected - hoped? - that Geralt would just hate him so much he would never show up again. He’d avoid Oxenfurt like the plague.

But no. No, here Geralt is, with his familiar white hair and golden eyes and deep frown.

He looks drained, though. Thinner than he should be. The dark rings under his eyes stand out vividly on his pale skin. He looks like he hasn’t eaten, slept, or bathed properly in a long while.

“Geralt,” Jaskier finally says, eyes glued to the shadows on the man’s face. He can’t help it. Worry latches itself to his very core as he takes in more and more and--

Geralt lets out a noise, something high from his throat, that just sounds so _wounded_ and that’s all Jaskier needs to push himself over.

He reaches out, grabbing ahold of Geralt’s arms, and pulls him into the apartment with little issue, throwing the door shut behind them. When he finds himself with his arms full of Witcher, he doesn’t hesitate to cling right back.

Geralt doesn’t cry, but the full body shake that runs through his body feels reminiscent of it, and he’s pressing his face tight to Jaskier’s throat, breathing deeply and holding on so tight. Jaskier, feeling weak and out of his depth but so, unbelievably protective, presses his face into white locks, one hand coming up to cradle the back of the Witcher’s head.

“Oh, Geralt,” he whispers, desperate and wet and he realizes tears are already streaking down his own face.

Geralt clings back a little harder, fists tight in the back of Jaskier’s robe, and he attempts to press even closer, nearly knocking them both over. “Jask...” he mumbles, voice rough and cracking, and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut.

He did this. He hurt his friend like this, if he can even call them friends anymore. He’s at fault here.

Suddenly, with a surge, Geralt is leaning back and grabbing ahold of Jaskier’s face. His eyes are near glowing with heat. “Jaskier, you fuck,” he says, harsh and desperate and frantic. “We thought-- _I_ thought you were dead!”

Geralt shakes him, just a little bit, not enough to cause distress or harm, but Jaskier is still flinching and looking away. That’s right. Geralt should be angry.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles and tries to step back, but Geralt won’t let him. He won’t stop touching Jaskier, clinging, staying close. The large, warm hands leave Jaskier’s face and go right back around his waist, clinging like their lives depend on it.

“No, I...” Geralt stops himself, shaking his head, and the fire bleeds out of him, his shoulders sagging and something so dark and exhausted sets over his face. “I thought you were _dead_...”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier repeats, quieter.

“I was...” another hesitation, a gulp, like Geralt is preparing himself. His voice is hardly louder than Jaskier’s own whisper. “I was so scared...” 

That startles Jaskier, because, while he didn’t believe in any of the nonsense that Witchers had no feelings, Geralt clung to that idea like a security blanket. He refused his emotions so constantly, fighting against them. Yes, his actions spoke otherwise, and Jaskier knew how to read them, but he would never admit to feeling something like fear aloud.

Except... that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Why... Why don’t you--”

“I do not hate you,” Geralt interrupts, so sudden and firm and strong it startles Jaskier back into silence. Again, another shift, and Geralt is back to cupping the dragon’s face, more gentle but no less desperate. “Eskel told us what you thought. How you... blamed yourself.” Geralt shakes his head, disbelieving, aghast. “None of what happened was your doing.”

“I should have been stronger,” Jaskier argues, shaking his head, but Geralt holds firm.

“If that’s true, then so should the other Witchers, but no one blames them. I wasn’t even _there_.” Geralt pauses, taking a deep, shaking breath, attempting to compose himself, and his callused thumbs shift to wipe off the new tears beginning to roll down Jaskier’s face. “This wasn’t your fault. You were hurt just like the rest of us...”

The heavy memory of Jaskier’s mother suddenly hangs over them both. She meant something to all of the Witchers, but especially Geralt. She had helped raise him as much as Vesemir had, caring for him like one of her own.

And Geralt had found what remained of her, alone, with no answers.

Jaskier should have been there. They should have been together, helping each other, like they always had.

Jaskier hiccups on a sob and Geralt, quieter and more gentle now, pulls him right back into a hug. Jaskier’s own arms come up, circling Geralt’s neck, and hold him back just as tightly.

“I missed you,” he whimpers.

“Missed you, too,” Geralt mumbles back.

They cling to each other for a long, long time after that, Jaskier dissolving into sobs as Geralt rocks back and forth. They’re both shaking.

They both begin to feel whole again.

~*~

"Come with me,” Geralt says later, sitting on the edge of Jaskier’s bed. He doesn’t have a room at the tavern or the inn, having rushed to Jaskier’s door the moment he’d gotten to Oxenfurt, but Jaskier offers him a share of his bed for as long as he’s there.

“What?” the dragon arches a brow, stepping away from where he’d been stoking the fire.

“On The Path. Come with me,” Geralt specifies and for a moment Jaskier feels like they’re children again, talking about taking on the world.

He could do it. He’s strong enough now to go with the Witcher. To fight and protect him. He could do it, and he truly, deeply wants to, but...

“I have responsibilities here,” he says, facing away. “Things I need to finish. I can’t... I can’t abandon anything else.”

“Jask...”

“It’s important to me, Geralt,” he finally turns around, his face pinched but certain. He’s so tempted by Geralt’s offer, but... “A few more years. I can’t stop now.”

Geralt watches him for a long moment, expression carefully neutral, before nodding slowly. “Okay... I get it...”

“Thank you,” Jaskier sighs, sagging, but then yelps when a large hand circles around his wrist and drags him to the bed. He’s held tightly, the desperation from before resurfacing, but he can’t feel upset by it as the Witcher’s heavy body weighs him into the bed, secure.

“What am I, your body pillow?” Jaskier huffs, but wraps his own arms around Geralt, holding and shuffling to get comfortable.

“Missed you,” Geralt mumbles, reaffirming what they’d said before, and a soft smile grows on Jaskier’s face.

“Missed you too, big guy,” he mumbles and, because he’s got the perfect opportunity, he presses his nose firmly into the part of Geralt’s neck that has him squirming and gasping away.

“Ass,” Geralt growls when Jaskier finally lets up, but he’s smirking, and that is how they end up falling asleep.

~*~

Geralt stays for multiple days, which turn into weeks, which almost turns into months until Jaskier has to put an end to it.

He doesn’t think he’s ever had as much fun as these last few weeks, terrorizing and starting rumors with his oldest friend, and he makes sure the Witcher gets plenty to eat and sleep... but Geralt has responsibilities of his own.

Jaskier eventually has to convince him to return to The Path, much as he wishes it not to be true.

And so Geralt leaves astride Roach - a new one that nips at everyone except her master - and Jaskier returns to what has become his daily norm.

~*~

For the next two years in a row Geralt does not return to Kaer Morhen for the winter. He sends word ahead, so none of the Witchers worry over him, and instead he hunkers down in the loud, vibrant streets of Oxenfurt.

It is in the autumn of the year after that second winter that Jaskier bids good-bye to the city he has called home for so long. He leaves the city, walking far, far down the path, before changing in a shimmering display and taking flight.

When he tracks down the Witcher with the white hair, it is to find him smack in the middle of a contract, fighting a mighty, dirty battle amid a swamp with the massive form of a vypper.

With the element of surprise on his side, the white dragon swoops down and lets out a torrent of blue flame, freezing the huge snake in place, and allowing Geralt to snap off its head like a twig.

“Wow!” Jaskier says, extra bright, as he lands before Geralt in the murky, swamp water. “You look dreadful!”

Geralt, dripping sludge and blood and all kinds of other things, gives him an unimpressed glare, before snorting and shaking his head. “I’m covered in guts. What’s your excuse?” he throws back. Jaskier makes a show of growling back at him, before he can’t fight off the grin any longer and he’s moving closer and pressing his snout to Geralt’s chest, the man wrapping his free arm around the large muzzle.

Jaskier is even larger than his mother had been.

“Oxenfurt?” Geralt questions lowly, forehead pressed to Jaskier’s scaly one.

“I’ve done everything I needed. Classes finished, students appeased, my own studies wrapped up! I am, officially, a traveling bard,” Jaskier smiles, slipping back enough to bow his head dramatically, lifting up a front claw daintily. “And this bard would very much like to travel with you, Geralt _of Rivia_. If you would have him.”

Geralt looks at him, his head tilted just slightly to the side, and the corner of his lips pulling upward. “Not looking for a bard,” he announces, hefting the vypper head up his hip a little. “Mind just traveling as my friend?”

Jaskier grins even brighter, if possible, and nods. “Yes, that... that I can do.”

And so their adventure, finally, begins.

~*~

They don’t travel together one hundred percent of the time.

Jaskier is, still, a bard. He adores the music, adores creating, adores setting a mood and making people happy. Sometimes he goes his own way to chase a possible job, a possible boost to his reputation, a possible story, but he and Geralt always find their way back to each other.

Most winters, as well, they go their separate ways.

Jaskier will not keep Geralt from Kaer Morhen and the remainders of his family, but he still isn’t ready to return himself. Geralt never seems particularly pleased about separating here, but he always understands. And Jaskier is always waiting at the foot of the mountains for his return.

A winter here and there, yes, they’ll stay at Oxenfurt again, but it is rare.

It all works out, though, this new flow they find themselves in. It works quite well.

Until Jaskier isn’t around when he definitely needed to be.

~*~

“Butcher. _Butcher!_ ” Jaskier screams, pacing the forest clearing he and Geralt find themselves in, his claws digging deep gashes in the earth. “Those heartless, shitty, awful, monosyllabic, cruel, inconsequential, _bastards_! The existential equivalent of acne! An ugly, festering, plague on society! FUCK THEM!”

Geralt sits, silent, near the fire he’s managed to make, not even attempting to interrupt Jaskier’s tirade.

He’s withdrawn, silent. More than usual.

He’s hurt. And Jaskier doesn’t know how to fix it.

“It fits,” Geralt suddenly says in the lull of Jaskier’s rant. It’s so quiet he probably was hoping Jaskier wouldn’t hear, but he isn’t so lucky.

“No it doesn’t!” Jaskier immediately fires back, marching over to Geralt and looking down at him. “You are no murderer. Or monster. Or _butcher_ ,” he snarls, then moves to take a seat. His long tail immediately moves to curl around Geralt’s legs and hips, the Witcher’s fingers instinctively curling around the appendage once it settles. “You are kind and caring and brave and good! You’re the best man to walk this gods forsaken continent and I’ll be damned if I let you see yourself any differently!”

Geralt sighs, sagging, and shakes his head, not saying a word.

“I should have been there,” Jaskier growls, partially to himself.

“And done what?” Geralt snorts, no humor in his voice. He just sounds tired and broken.

“Iced that creeper sorcerer to start!” Jaskier fires right back and finally, carefully, Geralt offers a small smile. He doesn’t look like he’s been convinced by anything his friend has said, but there is soft appreciation to his eyes that makes Jaskier weak.

“What would I ever do without my feral dragon?” Geralt grunts, a weak attempt at a joke, and Jaskier presses forward, nuzzling his nose against Geralt’s cheek.

“You’ll never find out,” he swears, before nudging them both off to a spot they can, hopefully, get some rest.

He hopes this whole “Butcher of Blaviken” thing will blow over. A name that remains in a single location that they will never visit again.

They aren’t so lucky.

The name haunts Geralt, dogs his every step, lingers in every villager’s cruel distrust.

Jaskier and his bubbly personality can only do so much to smooth it over, especially when that personality is tested and poked until he snaps and starts throwing insults, knives, and the occasional hidden ice.

For instance, when an alderman of a village refuses to pay Geralt for his services, they, quite suddenly, have a habit of slipping onto their asses, a sleek layer of ice appearing where they’d been about to step.

Jaskier, being the oh-so kind and friendly bard, always offers to help them up, dusting them down, before heading off alongside his friend.

When he slips the bundle of coins he’d managed to nab from the disoriented alderman into Geralt’s bag or hand, he only grins as the Witcher gives him an unimpressed glare.

“Just... found it on the side of the road. Can you believe it?” he always hums as Geralt counts the coin.

“The exact amount I would have been paid for that last contract?” Geralt drawls, one brow arched.

Jaskier flips him one more coin with a wicked grin. “Plus hazard pay. Looks like the universe likes us!”

Jaskier has spent years roaming the Continent, stealing to get by. He was hardly a master thief, but he wasn’t going to waste the talents he’d accrued. And Geralt never, really, berates him for it anyway. Likely because he knows it won’t stop Jaskier...

Yet still, that awful name lingers on Geralt’s back, weighing him down with each town, and Jaskier wishes he could do something about it. Something meaningful and worthwhile, to fix the wrong done to his friend.

Killing this “Stregobor” figure would likely only make himself feel better, not fix the problem, but the thought certainly crosses his mind. The whole situation, paired with the mages that helped facilitate the original attack on Kaer Morhen, just leaves Jaskier less and less willing to trust the chaotic bastards.

No, Jaskier needs to get people to start viewing Geralt differently. For the great man he truly is.

And he thinks he has just the plan.

~*~

After winter, Jaskier and Geralt usually meet in a village immediately at the base of the Blue Mountains, but not all the time. Sometimes business draws them in different directions, it happens, and they simply meet up at a later time somewhere new, usually sending word to each other in hopes of meeting up quickly.

Posada, however, is the last place Jaskier wants to be.

A mountain village at the very southern point of the Blue Mountains, far too close to the range he once called his territory. It makes him tense and jumpy and unwilling to even perform when he slips into the local tavern.

He rests in a far corner, a place Geralt will surely appreciate when he arrives, and cracks open one of his notebooks instead.

“New song?” comes the deep voice at his side maybe two or three hours later. Jaskier looks up and offers a grin to the appearance of his friend, though there is a tightness there he can’t quite shake.

“Been working on it for a bit. I have the chorus and hook perfected, but the actually verses...” Jaskier waves his hand around flippantly and Geralt sits with his back to the wall, nodding his thanks when a barmaid brings over a tankard.

He hums, to show he’s listening, even as his eyes quickly scan the room. He grabs his tankard, but Jaskier stops him. “Stuff tastes like piss. Here,” and he pulls a jar from his bag, half filled with honey, and passes it over. After he’d started traveling and experimenting with drinks all over the land, he’d found having a little honey on hand for the truly awful brews was a necessity.

Plus, both he and Geralt had always had a secret sweet tooth growing up.

“Anyway, it’s based around your adventures,” he continues as Geralt adjusts his drink and passes back the jar in silence. One, white eyebrow does cock up in suspicion, however. “I figure it’s about time someone told the proper stories of Witchers. Who better to do that than the bard that grew up alongside them?”

Jaskier flinches, momentarily thrown off, when the tavern door bangs harder than usual. He sighs, rolling his neck, before refocusing. Geralt, though, is giving him a thoughtful look.

“Right, well, your contracts and adventures are all spectacular, but I need something really worthwhile. Something that resounds with the people. I could fudge a few details, sure, but I still need a muse to begin with.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Geralt grunts, taking a long drag of his now sweetened ale. It makes Jaskier eye him for a moment.

“Wait... do you actually think this is a good idea? You never think my ideas are good ideas! Are you really okay with this?” he demands, leaning forward and pointing at his friend with an accusatory finger. Geralt looks at him flatly.

“If I say no, will you stop?” he questions.

“Absolutely not.”

“Than does my opinion really matter?”

“Not really,” Jaskier shrugs, sitting back, and smirking. It falls, though, when a group of locals in a corner begin yelling at each other. He tries to shake his head, shoulders stiffening, but it doesn’t help much.

The boot that kicks at his legs beneath the table is questioning and the tilt to Geralt’s head is concerned.

“Sorry,” Jaskier mumbles. “Too close to the mountains. Just feel... jumpy.”

“We’ll head out after this,” Geralt decides with little pause and Jaskier offers him a weak, thankful smile.

Their plan, however, is halted when a youthful man approaches their table, begging for help with a devil.

“We’ll pay one hundred orens, Sir Witcher,” he says, and Geralt looks to already be gearing up to refuse, likely with Jaskier in mind, when the dragon cuts in.

“Hundred fifty and you got a deal,” he smiles and the young man agrees, handing over the coin.

“Thought you wanted to leave,” Geralt says when they’re alone again.

“I do, but work is work,” Jaskier shrugs, forcing casualness into his voice that wasn’t there before. “Besides, devils aren’t a thing, so it’s probably something simple like a goat or a sylvan or anything with _horns_.”

“Hmm,” Geralt replies unhelpfully, before rising up from the table, Jaskier close behind him.

It does, in fact, turn out to be a sylvan, the bastard shooting little, metal balls at them that leaves Jaskier’s squishy, human body crumbling to the ground after a well-aimed hit. When he comes to, tied to Geralt’s back, they are hidden away in a barely-furnished cave.

“Can you pull loose?” Jaskier questions before their captors show up. Geralt is grunting and pulling at the ropes, furious like a caged animal, before flopping back against Jaskier with a growl.

“No,” he rumbles.

“Push comes to shove I can shift. Be a little cramped, though. You’ll probably need to duck into that corner when I do,” Jaskier says, looking around at the space they have. Yes, it would certainly be cramped, but if he immediately transformed back it would, at least, be enough to free them.

“Last resort,” Geralt grunts, sounding a tiny bit more composed now that they have a sure way of getting out.

“Are sylvans usually this violent?” Jaskier questions, because that doesn’t sound right. Sylvans were namely mischievous... right?

“Not sylvans. Must be elves,” Geralt huffs.

“How can you tell?”

“Makes sense. Years ago your...” suddenly, Geralt is pausing, hesitating, before forcing himself to continue, a little softer, “your mother told me elves moved into the southern reaches of the Blue Mountains after the Cleansing. She didn’t want to chase them off.”

“That...” Jaskier breathes, soft and suddenly heavy, “Sounds like her...”

“Hmm...”

They don’t get to talk any further or plan any other escape, however, because two elves are abruptly charging in, one taking great pleasure in kicking in their chests and guts. The other one, in a cruel twist of fate, shatters Jaskier’s lute, making the dragon cry out.

_“Oh, shut up with your lectures!”_ he eventually snaps in Elder, snarling, _“You talk about action while you just sit around, waiting for someone else to fix your problems!”_ Geralt smacks the back of his head with his own to shut him up, growling at him, but the female elf is already launching a new kick into Jaskier’s gut.

When Filavandrel makes his appearance Jaskier manages to hold his tongue, mostly because Geralt has managed to grab ahold of his fingers and twist them uncomfortably in warning. They listen, and Geralt argues, attempting to reason with the elves with cold facts.

It works, miraculously. They are freed without needing to resort to violence.

Well... any further violence.

Before they leave, however, and Geralt has handed over the 150 orens from the contract to the elves, Jaskier turns towards Filavandrel.

“I’m going to write a song about this,” he tells the elf king, “But I’m going to lie. It won’t be flattering, it won’t be true, and it will congratulate Geralt on his victory over you.”

The elves all scowl, eyes alight, but Filavandrel looks cold and resigned. “Retribution for our actions?”

“No,” Jaskier shakes his head, not faltering. “When the people believe you are defeated, they won’t go searching for you. They will celebrate your destruction and it will allow you to grow and strengthen in peace.”

That interests the elves, their heated anger melting away, and even the elven king seems startled. But then his lips are pulling into a small, grateful smile.

Jaskier ends up leaving there, leaving those mountains, with Geralt at his side, Filavandrel’s lute on his back, and the makings of a new song in his head.

~*~

Jaskier’s hysterical laughter won’t stop as he stumbles after Geralt’s swiftly retreating back. The Cintran palace is huge with halls like a maze, but Geralt’s pace seems certain as he attempts to head for the exit.

“Shut up,” Geralt snaps back at him for the hundredth time.

“You-hu-hu idiot!” Jaskier chortles, stumbling with his laughter, but not slowing down.

“Shut _up_ , Jaskier!” Geralt snaps again.

“What kind of mo-ho-horon invokes the fucking _Law of Surprise_ after all THAT?!” Jaskier throws his head back, not at all deterred by Geralt’s mounting ire.

“Jask, I swear,” Geralt snarls, pausing at a fork in the halls.

“You’re gonna be a DAD!” Jaskier howls, clapping, and finally Geralt swings around, facing him, his face thunderous.

“Like you have any space to laugh?!” he snarls, but Jaskier can see the panic, actual panic, mounting in his eyes, and some of the laughter fades. “You’ve probably got illegitimate children all over the fucking place.”

Jaskier arches an unimpressed brow. “Just because I can take human form doesn’t mean I _am_ a human. It’s impossible for me to have children with anyone but another dragon,” he drawls and Geralt snarls, spinning back around. Before he can storm forward, Jaskier is hooking their arms and pulling him short. “Geralt, breathe.”

“This is your fault,” the Witcher is abruptly growling, but the heat is already leaving his voice. “Wouldn’t have even been here if you weren’t such a whore.”

“Excuse you, I am no whore, I am a slut. Whores get paid,” Jaskier says primly and a weak snort escapes his friend. “And besides, no one forced you to invoke that stupid tradition. That was your own, stupid move. You could have asked for coin or a bed or, fuck, I wouldn’t have minded a horse of my own--”

“You’re a _dragon_.”

“I would have named them Pegasus,” Jaskier continues, ignoring Geralt’s interruption, then begins to drag the man along down one of the halls with purpose. “They would have been lovely and I would have spoiled them.”

“Roach would have been jealous,” Geralt mumbles and, finally, he’s beginning to sound like himself again. “Where are you taking me now?”

“Figured the castle’s wine cellar would be unguarded with all the excitement,” Jaskier throws a grin back at his friend, who rolls his golden eyes in disbelief.

The cellar is, in fact, unguarded, and Jaskier immediately nabs as many bottles of liquor as he can, passing off some for Geralt to help him carry.

“Stealing from royals, now?” Geralt grunts, eying a bottle of Est Est.

“Not like we’ll be welcome back, anyway,” Jaskier shrugs, then grins brightly and drags them both out of there.

They stop to gather their things from the inn, saddle up Roach, and immediately head off, not wanting to stay one more night in the streets of Cintra, and end up camping out a few miles out of town, in the woods.

Wine bottles are uncorked and drunk with fervor until their worlds tilt and they both end up on the ground, slouched against each other.

“Yer gonna be a dad...” Jaskier slurs, his gold doublet undone to the cool air.

“Hmmm...” Geralt hums, nuzzling into Jaskier’s hair like he doesn’t know what he’s actually doing.

“Wha’s that make me...? Godfather? Uncle Jask Jask?”

Geralt is silent, just humming one, solid pitch, before shifting to hook an arm around Jaskier’s waist, getting them both more comfortable. “Could be... the other dad...”

Mind addled and sluggish, Jaskier does not pick up the deeper meaning of what Geralt is suggesting. Hell, Geralt probably doesn’t either. Instead, the idea makes Jaskier smile with just how nice it sounds.

“Human kid with a... a Witcher an’ a dragon fer dads...” he says, weighing it out on his tongue, before a giggle bubbles out of him. “Melitele rest their soul...”

It sends both men into sluggish chuckles, pressed close to each other, until they’re passing out in the grass.

~*~

“Tea?”

“No.”

“Hot bath?”

“No.”

“Inordinate amounts of alcohol?”

“No, Jask.”

“...Brothel?”

“Jaskier, no, I told you. Nothing works,” Geralt snaps, marching around as he attempts to set up camp. It’s the middle of the day, which is odd, but the Witcher looks to know what he’s doing.

“Magic?” Jaskier suggests, in his full dragon form, a deer in his claws that he’d managed to catch for them both. Geralt had been off his game for some time now, and now Jaskier realized why.

He wasn’t sleeping.

Geralt looks back at the dragon, pausing, with a tight look on his face.

“What?” the dragon defends, raising his head a little higher, “A sorcerer might be able to make you a... potion or ring or some garbage to help you sleep.”

“You hate sorcerers,” Geralt replies.

“I don’t trust them,” Jaskier allows, but tilts his head as he looks to the Witcher, “But you seem fine with them, and you need sleep.”

Geralt just grunts with that, finishing with preparing camp, then picking up what looks like a small fishing net and heading for the nearby lake.

“Uhh... I already caught our food!” Jaskier calls, watching Geralt as he moves, and pointing with one claw at the dead dear at his feet.

“Not fishing,” Geralt mumbles, which has Jaskier standing and following after him, confused. He watches as the man tosses his net into the lake and reel it back in a few times, looking exactly like he’s fishing.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier drawls out and Geralt shoots him a glare. The dragon holds up one of his front hands in surrender, glancing away, allowing Geralt to continue with what he’s doing.

“I’m looking for a djinn,” Geralt eventually admits, sounding focused and serious, and it takes Jaskier a moment to realize he’s being given an explanation for this bizarre behavior.

“You’re... I’m sorry, can you repeat that, because it SOUNDED like you just said you were searching for a djinn to help you with INSOMNIA!” Jaskier exclaims, moving after Geralt when he moves down the shore, net still in hand.

“I don’t have a choice,” Geralt grits through his teeth, and Jaskier groans, rolling his eyes skyward.

“Are you serious? There’s plenty more we can do! A djinn - I mean for fucks sake, Geralt - should be the final option-- no. Wait. It shouldn’t be an option at all!” Jaskier flails, wings and tail smacking the trees around them, but he pays it no mind. “I mean, really, Geralt, how long has this been going on? A few weeks?”

Geralt doesn’t respond, at first, his back a tense curve as he throws the net back into the water.

“Geralt...?”

“Six years...”

Jaskier blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Six years!” Geralt is abruptly turning on him, temper flaring, and Jaskier arches a brow. “I haven’t been able to fucking sleep properly for six years!”

“Geralt, that’s...” but Jaskier trails off, the cogs in his head turning. “Wait... do you think this could be because of the whole Child Surprise, business?” he suggests, but Geralt snarls and turns away, back to fishing. It doesn’t stop Jaskier. “Do you think this is destiny telling you to get your shit together?”

“The Path is no place for a child,” Geralt growls, moving down the shore again and Jaskier follows.

“I couldn’t agree more,” the dragon nods, sitting down. “Leaving the child in the care of their blood family, at least for the time being, is likely the most responsible thing we can do... But you still haven’t exactly... claimed the child. You know... ‘As this child’s father of surprise, I deem it most efficient for them to grow in the protection of a royal household! Grunt, grunt, Witcher noise, fuck destiny’.”

“I don’t sound like that,” Geralt grunts and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“Sure you do! Like someone gargled twenty knives.”

“Meanwhile you sound like a pie with no filling,” Geralt shoots back.

“So... bread?”

“...Shut up, Jask.”

Jaskier, for a moment, does remain silent, watching Geralt work with a disapproving glare. A djinn, if there actually was one in this lake, was certainly not the way to fix Geralt's problems.

There had to be another solution...

Jaskier’s attention turns to the lake and he sucks in a deep, deep breath.

“Jaskier!” Geralt yells, surprised and furious, when blue flame erupts beside him and freezes the lake solid, locking whatever maybe-djinn within.

“No more djinn. That’s a stupid plan. Let’s head into town and ask after any magic-users. They’ll surely have a better solution than this,” Jaskier says, putting his foot down, and ignoring Geralt’s glare as he turns back towards their camp. He shifts into a human to start packing everything up, organizing everything back into Roach’s saddlebags. He’s nearly done when Geralt joins him, looking furious, and they don’t speak as they finish and head back onto the road.

~*~

What Jaskier will later christen “The Yennefer Incident” is a hot mess from beginning to end.

Not only do they walk in on her manipulating a mass orgy with disgusting smelling magic smoke that does not affect either Geralt or Jaskier, but she also has no qualms dipping into their minds for a peak.

Geralt clearly fights her off, and the spell just plain doesn’t work on dragons, but Jaskier tries to pretend like he doesn’t notice.

She does, at least, agree to help Geralt with his problem in exchange for “payment,” which she says with plenty of obvious undertones, and Jaskier attempts to leave them alone. Geralt’s a big boy, after all, and maybe a roll in the sheets will do him good.

Except he doesn’t get a roll in the sheets, he gets a spell thrust upon him that makes him run off to humiliate Yennefer’s political opponents. Then Yennefer attempts to induce a magical sleep on Jaskier, which doesn’t work but he pretends it does, before she’s fleeing.

He thinks she’s simply run away like a coward, until he manages to break Geralt out of Rinde’s jail and discovers she got a good look at Geralt’s mind and discovered the location of the djinn.

This leads the two men on a mad chase back to the lake, where the sorceress is attempting to melt away the ice with magic and is just pulling an ancient-looking amphora out from within. Jaskier charges her without thinking, knocking into her and sending them both tumbling and sliding over the ice. She’s wearing less, he notes, draped in loose cloth that leave little to the imagination.

Before any barbs or insults can be thrown, however, the amphora is crashing into the ice behind them. “Fuck!” Geralt curses, hurrying to gather up the broken pieces, but Yennefer is outstretching her hand and the cork to the amphora goes flying into her hand, as if pulled by a string.

The movement makes the broken pieces slice a line into Geralt’s arm, but they hardly notice, because the air around them is churning and swirling, darkening like a storm.

The djinn has been released.

There’s no hesitation from the sorceress as she attempts to claim the first wish.

“I wish for limitless power!” Yennefer exclaims over the storm, holding the engraved cork up to the air, and Jaskier stiffens, waiting for something to happen. When nothing does, however, the witch scowls something vicious. “I wish for limitless power!” she repeats, louder, more desperate, but the wind is getting worse.

Nothing happens.

“I _demand_ power to rival yours, djinn!” Yennefer continues, and Jaskier shifts to look back at Geralt on the shore, his eyes drawn to the cut sluggishly bleeding on his arm, and he thinks he has an idea of what has happened.

“Geralt! Make a wish!” he yells over the wind, frantic. They needed to get this djinn out of here already. “Make a stupid wish! Something unimportant and literal!”

“What?! I...” but Geralt stops, looking down at the cut in his arm. A marker. A pact. He looks up at the sky and, taking a deep breath, tries, “I... wish for a new blade!”

It was true, Geralt needed a new silver blade. His current one was run down and silver was a delicate metal. Plus, it was something incredibly specific with little way of twisting his words for the djinn’s benefit. He just needed a new sword, end of story.

The blades that come raining down from the sky, however, are far from what they need.

“Make a different wish! Make a different wish!” Jaskier shrieks, scrambling across the ice as blade after blade, in all manner of shapes and sizes, come careening into the ice and lodging there. Further across the ice, Yennefer is faring better, magically deflecting the falling swords.

“I wish... I wish for a means to sleep!” Geralt tries. It is a good, safer wording to his previous predicament. He wasn’t wishing for the djinn to put him to sleep, which would surely have disastrous consequences, but rather a method that Geralt could choose or deny at his own will.

Except, djinn are crafty. They are crafty and cruel and damaged. They are given a reminder of that when, with an echoing boom that silences all three of them, the ice beneath Jaskier’s and Yennefer’s feet begins to crack.

He supposed the djinn was showing Geralt a method to sleep forever... by drowning the rest of them.

Jaskier hears the sorceress curse behind him - “Oh, fuck!” - and for once he agrees with her as they are both suddenly tumbling into the icy water.

The cold doesn’t bother Jaskier, of course, but no matter how long he can hold his breath, he doesn’t have gills, and the thick sheets of ice being churned along the surface keep both himself and Yennefer from breaking the surface.

The water is churning, too, whipping them around and around like rag dolls, dragging them deeper and deeper down. Down where the djinn had been stuck for who knows how long.

At some point, amongst the spiraling, dragging water he and the sorceress collide, knocking precious air out of their lungs, and Jaskier scrambles to grab ahold of her. Maybe, if he transforms, he can get them both out of here. He despises this woman, but she doesn’t deserve to be murdered by a djinn on a rampage.

But black shadows are taking over his vision and he feels sluggish, his chest burning as more time passes, and only as he feels himself slipping away does he realize the water is beginning to slow.

He’s sagging, losing himself, and the last thing he notes is what feels like a strong arm wrapping around his waist.

~*~

They survive. All three of them. Geralt, Jaskier, and Yennefer.

Jaskier isn’t entirely sure how, other than Geralt made his third wish and, once the djinn had fled, had managed to drag both dragon and sorceress out of the water.

It makes Jaskier wonder what that final wish was...

None of them have the energy to fight after that, laying in the grass and attempting to gather their breath, then sitting up slowly. Geralt keeps glancing at Yennefer, who has drawn in on herself, and Jaskier... Jaskier’s just hungry...

“Deer’s still here,” he notes, standing, and going over to the old location of their campsite. The deer he’d caught the day prior is still there and Jaskier goes about making a fire and prepping the food. He returns to the other two eventually, handing over a leg each, and they eat in silence.

“No more djinn,” Jaskier eventually mumbles, earning a kick from Geralt, and complete silence from the sorceress.

Eventually, food eaten, Yennefer stands. She is quiet for a moment, before she is mumbling the most awkward “thank you” Jaskier’s ever heard and then stepping through a portal.

“Fucking sorcerers,” Jaskier grumbles, getting another kick from Geralt. 

He hopes it is the last they ever see of that woman.

~*~

That night they camp in the dirt, exhausted, and pressed together like usual. Geralt’s grip is just that little bit tighter, however, and soon both of them are falling into peaceful slumber.

~*~

They keep running into Yennefer. Over and over and over. In the most random of situations. And every time she leaves it feels like something is tugging them back together.

Not Geralt and Yennefer, though. No, all three of them.

Jaskier has always felt a connection to Geralt and, even when they were separate it felt like something was pulling them together at all times. It is a familiar feeling. But now, bizarrely, that feeling has been tied to that awful, terrible sorceress as well.

And, well... Yennefer isn’t that terrible, he has to admit. She’s damaged and mysterious and blunt, knowing exactly what she wants while not seeing that, what she wants, is only hurting her more.

But... she could be worse, Jaskier supposes. She makes for a great debate opponent over the dumbest things and she always challenges the dragon to up his game with insults and comebacks.

But this pull... It hadn’t been there before. Not until after Rinde.

Not until after the djinn.

“What was your third wish, Geralt?” Jaskier asks as the two men lay in their rented room, pressed close together, their insides pulling after the sorceress who had just left their presence earlier that day.

The Witcher is silent, holding Jaskier a little tighter, and avoiding eye contact.

“Geralt...?”

“You were both drowning,” Geralt begins, fingers idly trailing over Jaskier’s back. “I had to do something.”

“And what did you do?”

“I wished that you wouldn’t leave my life. Neither of you...” And thus the djinn had tied their fates together, firmly connecting the three of them for the rest of their lives.

Geralt isn’t looking at him, firmly staring ahead at the far wall, his body tense as if preparing for an attack. Or rejection.

It makes Jaskier hurt, seeing the way Geralt acts, even when around his oldest friend.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispers, feeling the other tense under his hands, but then he’s pressing forward before any awful, self-deprecating thought can enter Geralt’s mind.

Their lips press together, chaste and soft, with far more experience than their first. With far more meaning than their first. It lingers and stretches and pulls them apart and then back together again.

Similar to their first, though, it feels as if they have a lot of missed time to catch up on.

And this time, they will.

~*~

“Do you both love each other?” Yennefer asks casually as she and Jaskier sit, side-by-side, in some noble’s banquet hall. Jaskier honestly doesn’t remember their name, he didn’t really care, it had been Yennefer who had been invited and needed a plus one.

She’d picked Jaskier because he knew etiquette and fashion and they had found some common ground when it came to rumors and pettiness. Plus, the moment anyone mentioned a feast with nobles Geralt tended to flee for the wilderness.

“Do who love what now?” Jaskier looks her. They’re both holding glasses of wine, undisturbed, as two knights battle for the love of some noble woman who, Yennefer claims, is currently shagging the cook’s daughter.

“You and Geralt. You’re both so... gushy,” the sorceress waves her hand through the air, like this is something so feeble and beneath her.

“We’ve known each other out entire lives. Of course we love each other,” Jaskier replies, ignoring the ‘gushy’ comment. And he wasn’t lying. He and Geralt really did love each other very much, no doubt about it, but Jaskier suspected Yennefer meant something else.

“You know what I meant, bard,” Yennefer shoots him a side glare, “Are you both _in love_ with each other?”

Jaskier pauses and thinks. He could put so many things to flowery language, but for some reason... this he doesn’t want to. It feels almost _too_ close to his heart, too serious, too personal to try and word it for another person’s entertainment and analysis.

“I think so,” he says slowly, fingers tapping his wine glass. “If not, I think we are on our way. It’s...” he tilts his head, considering again, and he feels Yennefer’s violet eyes on him. “I don’t think I realized before how much being in love with someone is... a choice. And work. Worth it! Just... not what I was prepared for.”

“Have you slept together?” Yennefer asks bluntly, and Jaskier arches a brow.

“Is that what this is about?” he hums, swirling his glass and smirking. “I know Geralt’s been trying to ‘put the moves’ on you lately. Are you trying to find out if he’s any good?”

“How would you know he’s been coming onto me?” Ohh, now Yennefer’s glaring, but Jaskier just snorts.

“Because we tell each other everything and he also asked me to teach him the best ways to flirt with you. I told him it was tradition in Vengerberg to give the woman you fancy a fish!”

Jaskier grins brightly as Yennefer’s brows furrow and she mumbles, “ _That’s_ why he bought me a porgy...” She shakes out of her surprise quickly, giving Jaskier a bland look, and commenting, “You’re not a very good wingman.”

“He told the last barmaid I was trying to seduce that I fart in my sleep. This was payback.” It was something they were always doing, not out of jealous or spite, but just because they liked to mess with each other and knew they could get away with it.

They were each other’s anti-wingman.

“Does it bother you, then?” Yennefer questions, sounding more curious than upset.

“That he’s trying to bed you? Nah! We’re pretty cool with going around,” he shrugs, then smirks at the sorceress. “Actually, you’ll be able to tell me later how he is in bed. We’re taking it kind of slow. Day by day. You’ll know more about that than me if you accept.”

“’Taking it slow’ does not sound like either of you,” the sorceress snorts as she takes a sip of wine.

“We’ve known each other for a long, long time. There’s history there, plus we know we have the time. Just made sense to allow it to happen naturally.”

Yennefer hums, looking away, and Jaskier hears her mumble to herself, “Gushy,” and he hides his chuckle in his own glass of wine.

~*~

When Jaskier meets Borch, Tea, and Vea, they find him digging out a coin purse from two, frozen bodies.

They halt, just as they spot him, and give him a strange look. He glances up, sensing their eyes, then looks back at the frozen men.

“They tried to steal Roach,” he shrugs, motioning at the red mare munching idly at a low-hanging branch. Tea and Vea glance to each other, a silent conversation between them both, as Borch moves closer.

“I do not pass judgement, I assure you,” the man says, a soft smile on his face, but once he gets close enough he stalls. They both stall, looking at each other, realization dawning on them both at the same time.

They know what each other are. They can recognize their own kind.

“Impressive,” Borch breathes, his brows rising, “To look like this... Are you...?”

“Not golden. White. My mother taught me much of the old ways,” Jaskier cuts in, knowing where the questions are going. The golden dragon, and Jaskier can tell he’s a golden dragon now, nods.

“You are Jaskier? The famous bard?” Jaskier nods. “Your Witcher... Does he know?”

At this, Jaskier grins, a laugh on his tongue, and he nods. “Geralt and I grew up together! I assure you, he knows,” he chuckles, and Borch’s smile warms. The women behind him look mildly confused.

“That is good to hear... My name is Villentretenmerth, but you may call me Borch.”

Jaskier smiles a bit bigger and steps forward, hand outstretched in greeting. “Baratavonsala, son of Jaganthea. But you know to call me Jaskier. Or Julian Pankratz, if you needed my pen name.” They shake hands.

The dismembered head of a monster smacking the ground a few feet away cuts their meeting short, however, and Jaskier turns to smile brightly as Geralt returns, hardly even looking frazzled from the contract. The Witcher’s eyes do snap to the frozen bodies before moving back to Jaskier suspiciously.

“What? They tried to steal Roach! You should be thanking me!” Jaskier huffs defensively.

“And the pay?” Geralt grunts, moving forwards, his eyes now flicking over to the new arrivals, narrowing in consideration as he tries to measure if they are a threat of not.

“Of course I got it,” Jaskier rolls he eyes, tossing over the coin purse. He does pause long enough to glance at the frozen men, though, with a sense of morbid realization. “I might be a bit too used to doing this...”

“You think?” Geralt snorts, bumping their shoulders as he turns fully to the newcomers.

“Hello, Geralt of Rivia,” Borch begins with his warm, friendly smile, bowing his head respectfully. “My name is Borch, and these are my swords, Tea and Vea.”

“They look like ladies to me...” Jaskier mumbles, grunting in pain when Geralt elbows him.

“We are here to make a proposition to you,” Borch continues, gaining both men’s interest. "Care to join me in the village tavern for a drink? On me.” And who are they to turn down free drinks and a possible job?

~*~

“I don’t hunt dragons,” is the first thing out of Geralt’s mouth after they’ve settled down in the crowded tavern, been given drinks, and Borch has explained exactly what he is hoping from the Witcher. Geralt’s leg, beneath the table, instinctively presses against Jaskier’s, and Jaskier can feel the tension in his friend’s body.

It’s kind of sweet, actually, but Jaskier doesn’t have space to consider it. He’s more confused as he eyes Borch, wondering why a dragon would ever want to be part of a dragon hunt.

It is possible that this green dragon is an enemy of Borch’s, but it is unlikely. Dragons are so few and far between that they all have an unspoken rule not to do each other harm.

It is more likely that Borch is attempting to control the hunt from within, and a Witcher would be a spectacular player to have on his side. Especially since Witchers are known for defending dragons, not killing them.

“Now, now, Geralt, let’s hear the man out,” Jaskier says slowly, laying a hand on Geralt’s thigh beneath the table, squeezing in hopes of relieving the tension there. Geralt’s head snaps to look at him, brows furrowed, and Jaskier gives him a look that hopefully communicates, “Trust me.”

The Witcher scowls, but takes a gulp of his ale and doesn’t put up any further fight.

“There are four groups taking part in this hunt. You would, of course, be on our team,” Borch explains. He then points their attention first to a table of humans dressed in armor and leathers and carrying a wide assortment of weapons. They are silent and still, but not like a Witcher. A Witcher never looks like they’re waiting to strike. Waiting for blood. Not the ones Jaskier knows.

The Reavers, these human mercenaries are called, and Jaskier decides he does not trust them.

The dwarves, on the other hand, immediately peak his interest as they loudly demand their drinks and respect, climbing onto the bar to threaten the human barkeep for ignoring them.

“I like them. They’re absolutely terrifying and I want to be their friend,” Jaskier stage whispers to Geralt, who rolls his eyes and elbows him.

“And the forth team?” Geralt grunts, looking to Borch.

“A knight and his sorceress. I do not see them here-- ah! I think that must be them,” Borch turns towards the entrance where the door is being held open and two figures are walking through.

Both Geralt and Jaskier still in surprise when Yennefer enters.

“Oh, this just became such a mess,” Jaskier sighs, leaning back and crossing his arms. He glances at Geralt, who may as well be making goo-goo eyes at the witch, his mouth hanging open in a daze.

Yennefer, in that moment, looks over and locks eyes with the two men, her own expression quickly straightening out. Jaskier offers a two-finger salute while Geralt... well...

“We’re in,” the Witcher breathes and Jaskier looks sharply at him.

“Wow. Changed your mind real quick there, huh?” he drawls and feels no small amount of pleasure when it makes Geralt’s thigh, still under his hand, flinch. Like he just remembered Jaskier was there.

It wasn’t uncommon. Jaskier knew, from hearing it from both Geralt and Yennefer, that the two had finally slept together. And continued to sleep together. Geralt was clearly smitten and Yennefer... well it was hard to tell what she was thinking majority of the time, but she must enjoy some part of it.

And Jaskier wasn’t jealous. He had been excited at first, that Geralt seemed to have an honest to god crush and was seeking it out. It was sweet and something he thought his friend deserved.

Until he realized that the communication between the two parties ran from “barely there” to “nothing at all.” They left each other’s bed before the other awoke, never broached the subject of feelings, never just spent time with each other, and, much to Jaskier’s frustration, Geralt still hadn’t told Yennefer about his wish.

He’d made Jaskier swear not to say a word, to allow Geralt to work up to the right moment and tell her himself. It was his responsibility, after all, and Jaskier had grudgingly accepted.

He was beginning to regret that now. He and Yennefer still bickered - it was basically their preferred form of communication with each other - but now every meeting felt tinged with something bitter. Something hovering over them all. And Jaskier really, really hated it.

Plus, the sorceress just made Geralt so stupid. Or... more stupid than usual, in Jaskier’s opinion.

When they retire for the night, Jaskier has to drag the Witcher up to their shared room and away from the one they can smell Yennefer in.

“Just leave the poor woman be,” the dragon rolls his eyes. “You’ll have plenty of time to awkwardly stare at her tomorrow.” He’s being more snippy than usual, but he doesn’t much care. “Also, and here’s a wild idea, tell her about the damn wish you made that directly effects her life? Maybe? Possibly? I know, crazy ideas aplenty here! But keep it in mind.”

He’s stripping out of his clothes and cleaning up with a rag and basin, ready to get into bed already, while Geralt slowly removes his armor. He can feel the Witcher’s eyes on his back.

“You know I’d never kill a dragon unless I absolutely had to,” Geralt eventually says, addressing at least one of the things that is rubbing Jaskier the wrong way.

“You agreed pretty quick to this stupid hunt once the pretty lady walked through the door,” Jaskier snaps, blue flames sparking from the sides of his mouth, and he takes a few, deep breaths to calm down.

“You insinuated we should trust Borch,” Geralt sends back, taking a seat on the bed to get his boots off.

“I wanted to hear his reasoning! There’s more to this Borch character than he puts out, but that didn’t mean to go ahead and join in!” Jaskier’s voice begins to rise and he swings around to face his friend.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says evenly as he stands back up, hands out, as he moves closer to Jaskier, “But we need to keep an eye on Yennefer. There’s no way she’s here for anything good.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to shoot something else scathing at the other man, but Geralt cuts him off, hands falling onto slender shoulders. “ _Besides_... if we’re smart, we may even be able to protect the green dragon before anyone gets to them.”

Jaskier stares up into golden eyes, glaring as hard as he can, but he slowly begins to deflate. He feels tired and stretched thin. He ducks his head. “Alright... okay, fine, just... I can’t watch another dragon get,” he shudders, swallowing, “ _gutted_ like livestock.”

“You won’t,” Geralt promises, leading Jaskier towards the bed and sitting him down. Jaskier looks up at him and decides, for his own well being and his relationship with this man, that he’s just going to have to let go of all his other stresses from the day. It won’t do any of them good if he’s fuming at Geralt and Yennefer while they’re all stuck traveling up a mountain.

“Will you be okay? Going up the mountain?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier offers him a smile, soft and genuine.

“Yeah. These aren’t the Blue Mountains. It’s no issue,” he assures, then reaches out and wraps his arm around Geralt’s waist, not liking that he’s still standing. He pulls the man down, Geralt huffing in amusement at the shift to neediness from the dragon.

What? Dragons are greedy.

The Witcher straddles the dragon’s thighs, on his knees, before settling down more comfortably. They still hadn’t had sex with each other, it simply hadn’t cropped up yet, but they were growing more and more intimate and confident in their touches as time went on.

A lot more intimate, in some cases.

Lips press together messily, Jaskier squeezing Geralt’s waist with both arms, wanting as much contact as he can get, and Geralt’s heavy hands move from his shoulders to his face, holding it steady.

“I have another crazy idea,” Jaskier whispers against Geralt’s incessant lips. It seemed Witchers are quite greedy, too.

“Gods save us,” the Witcher rumbles, but his lips twitch upward. Jaskier can feel them.

“You know how great I am with my mouth?”

“Hmm...” Geralt grunts, shifting to set his own mouth to Jaskier’s jaw and make him rumble pleasantly. “I always thought it was more an enthusiasm over skill situation, but go on.”

“Rude!” Jaskier yelps and, feeling bold with a lap full of trusting, languid Witcher, he smacks at Geralt’s plump bottom. The groan it elicits does _things_ to the dragon he doesn’t think even he’s felt before. “But my point stands... I was thinking, with this enthusiastic _and_ skilled mouth of mine, that I might ravish every inch of you with my lips, teeth, and tongue.”

He feels the shudder that passes through Geralt and he loves that he has the ability to do this to him. That he gets to see the Witcher with his walls down and completely trusting. That he gets to see _his_ Witcher like _this_.

“If you’re amenable, of course,” Jaskier hums cheerfully, beginning to lean away, but Geralt is suddenly growling in his ear and chasing after him, arms around his shoulders, and knocking them both backwards onto the bed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Jaskier chuckles, before pressing up to suck shamelessly at Geralt’s neck, fully intent on making the man _squirm_.

~*~

“Geralt, guess what!” Jaskier calls cheerfully as he crouches amidst the berry bushes a few paces away from the hunting party. “I made a friend!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt groans, clearly not happy at Jaskier’s antics, and the bard begins to stand and make his way back, his new friend trotting at his heels. When they emerge from the bushes and the creature comes into view, however, the rest of the party gasps and jumps back. Everyone but Geralt, Yennefer, and a clearly amused Borch.

“What? The poor gal was starving!” Jaskier pouts at his friend’s displeasure as the hirikka sniffs at Jaskier’s pockets, searching for more strips of meat. She was clearly malnourished, all skin and bones and patches of thin fur, with eyes too large for her skeletal face, and she had been ready to attack Jaskier in desperation.

But Jaskier hadn’t been frightened, knowing he was stronger, and had noticed all the ribs poking out of her sides. He’d slipped out some of his strips of raw meat, usually saved for his own snacking, and given them to her, seeming to immediately win her trust.

“I think I will name her...” Jaskier looks back at the hirikka, passing her another strip of meat that she greedily gobbles up, “Mirka! What do you think?”

“You can’t have a pet hirikka, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, not pleased yet not surprised at all. It was, perhaps, not the first time Jaskier had made nice with random monsters and beasts...

“Of course not, Geralt! That’s why she’s my _friend_. Honestly, for a man with super hearing you really must work on your listening,” Jaskier scoffs, scratching behind Mirka’s right ear until she leans into it.

“Fear not, young bard, I can handle this,” the obnoxious knight traveling with Yennefer is abruptly cutting in, stepping forward as he draws his sword. Eyck’s voice is booming and deep - the voice of a man who thinks he is more important than he really is - and Jaskier gives him an unimpressed look.

“Step away slowly from that monster and I will dispatch of it,” Eyck continues, sword pointed forward, and a rattling growl builds up in the hirikka’s throat.

“Uh, _her_ name is Mirka. And I’ve clearly got everything dealt with just fine, thank you. No need for violence at every turn, knight,” Jaskier glares, slipping Mirka another strip of meat to calm her down.

No further arguments can be made, however, because Geralt is shoving Eyck aside and holding out a large, dead bird from their packs. It immediately draws Mirka’s attention, more than Jaskier’s single strips of meat, her ears perking up and nostrils flaring, and then Geralt is chucking the bird deep into the woods.

Mirka scrambles and chases after it, disappearing in the bush, and knocks Jaskier over in her haste.

Jaskier glares up as Geralt’s head pops into his view.

“Leave the wildlife alone, Jask,” the Witcher says, a smirk on his face, and Jaskier pouts a little deeper.

“You were just jealous I was making new friends other than you.”

“Yes. I was jealous of a malnourished rabbit-monkey,” Geralt deadpans, and lowers a hand to help Jaskier up. Jaskier takes it and when he’s standing again he dusts off his blue-white doublet. He’d almost gone with the red number he had recently purchased, but with Borch’s golden scaled outfit it felt fitting to go this route.

“As you should be. She held better conversation anyway,” Jaskier scoffs, ducking when Geralt swipes at his head, this dance between them familiar by now.

When they settle around the fire, food cooking and tents and bedrolls prepped, Jaskier can’t help but notice Eyck’s glances towards the woods. “Leave the poor thing alone, knight,” the white dragon eventually snaps, knowing from the tells that Eyck intends to go monster hunting the second everyone’s backs are turned. “Hirikkas are super rare, even more rare than dragons. Nearly extinct. Just let her be.”

Eyck shoots him a very displeased glare, but does not deign the bard worthy of a response.

So dinner moves on and Jaskier tries not to cringe at the Reaver’s advances on Yennefer. It’s painful to watch, especially when Geralt cuts in to “defend her honor,” in his way. Jaskier wants to tell him that Yennefer’s a big girl and her comebacks will be far more scathing, but he keeps silent.

Instead he pulls out his lute and strums a few scales, keeping an eye out as Eyck excuses himself, insinuating he must relieve himself, except he carries his full armor and sword. Jaskier and Geralt exchange a look, before rolling their eyes and ignore him.

Dumbass would likely be dead by the morning.

Up front and starving, the hirikka would be an easy target, but in the woods where she could set up an ambush? The knight was doomed, and Jaskier didn’t find he much cared.

Yennefer, huffy with her knight’s abrupt departure, leaves for her own tent to sleep and Jaskier returns to his lute.

It takes the bard a few minutes to realize that a conversation is happening at his side and he looks over, curious. It sounds like Geralt is questioning Borch on why the green dragon may have suddenly appeared in these mountains and what other incidents have led up to this hunt.

Borch claims it could be for a lot of reasons, but Jaskier thinks the gold dragon is bullshitting them.

“Each type of dragon has unique behavior patterns,” Geralt hums, partially to himself, likely hoping that, if he knows why the dragon is here that he’ll have a better chance of saving them. “Red, white, black, and green... they’re all different...”

“And gold and silver,” Jaskier throws in, winking at Borch behind Geralt’s back. He doesn’t know why Borch hasn’t told Geralt that he’s a dragon, too, but Jaskier isn’t going to drop another dragon’s secret like that. It would be horribly rude.

“Those are just myths,” Geralt mumbles, still half to himself.

Jaskier stills, idle taps of his fingers on his lute halting, and he turns a blank, hard stare on his friend, gaze burning into the side of Geralt’s face. “I’m sorry...” Jaskier begins, icily calm, and Geralt also goes still, not looking over, “but are you actually lecturing _me_... on dragons?”

Geralt turns his head to look in the complete opposite direction as Jaskier, not saying a word, but he must have some kind of expression because Borch, Tea, and Vea look remarkably entertained.

Jaskier, taking some pity, lets it drop, but he does reach out to pat Geralt’s leg. “You are a ridiculous man,” he drawls, feeling Geralt snort more than he hears it, and that’s the end of that.

~*~

They take a shortcut to the dragon’s lair. Some old dwarves path that is built into the cliff face. Jaskier isn’t afraid of heights, yet the slatted wood still makes him anxious.

Yennefer is with them. They did find Eyck dead in the morning, torn apart by an animal and half eaten, which left the witch in a foul mood. Jaskier didn’t understand why. The knight had been a complete fool and she could do so much better just on her own.

Still, Geralt goes off to invite her along on the shortcut, but when they rejoin the group...

Geralt is stiff. Jaskier has no clue what the two could have spoken about, but it clearly has upset the Witcher and he travels close to Jaskier’s side, eying Yennefer on occasion.

“What on earth did you two talk about that has you so uptight?” Jaskier whispers when they make a pitstop for lunch.

For a while, he isn’t sure he’ll get an answer, and his curiosity begins to turn to concern and frustration. “Just...” but then Geralt is mumbling, and he cringes at himself, like he hadn’t meant to say anything. Jaskier steps a bit closer, their voices low. “She knows about the Child Surprise, and I asked her why she’s here...”

Okay, it was probably good that a few things had finally been said between the two, Jaskier could admit, but why was Geralt acting so squirrelly about it? So what if Yennefer knew he had a Child Surprise? Why was that so upsetting?

“Why is she here, then?” Jaskier questions the other bit, brows furrowed, and here Geralt stiffens.

“Doesn’t matter,” the white-haired man grunts, but Jaskier thinks he’s piecing things together. Yennefer was a sorceress with very particular desires, and if she had a specific potion or spell in mind... well, they required specific ingredients.

“She wants to harvest the dragon,” Jaskier mumbles, resigned, and a little heartbroken. Why should Yennefer care about some dragon, though? She’s been taught the same things as everyone else. That they’re animals and it is okay to kill them as desired.

That’s what he tells himself, yet still his insides begin to twist harshly.

Geralt doesn’t reply, but the pinched look on his face is all the answer Jaskier needs. The dragon sighs, deep, and his shoulders sag. Walking beside him, Geralt bumps their sides together, in an awkward attempt at comfort as they continue towards the shortcut.

It helps a little, but not that much.

~*~

Geralt finally begins to realize that something is different about Borch long after they watched he and the twins fall into the fog beneath the mountain. Not because of anything Borch had done, but because of Jaskier’s near flippancy at their presumed deaths.

Jaskier had done everything he could to calm and assure his Witcher after the fact, but Geralt had felt thinned by this entire journey. His patience was shot and it allowed his temper to flare.

“Why didn’t you fly after them?” he finally snaps, sitting atop a rock some ways from the rest of the group, Jaskier beside him. The dragon, however, doesn’t react to the angry tone.

“Other than Yennefer and the dwarves being right there, who are all on journeys to gut a dragon?” he drawls, bland, And Geralt grits his teeth, nothing to say to that. Instead he turns forward, attempting to ignore the world around him as his insides churn.

Jaskier sighs, seeing the negative cloud growing in his friend’s head, his eyes clouding over and distant, and he reaches out to tuck a few stray strands of white hair behind Geralt’s ear. “It’s going to be okay. You did everything you were supposed to. They’ll be fine.”

Now, that last comment has Geralt’s attention turning back to Jaskier and the dragon bites his lip, cursing his own mouth. “No, they won’t be,” Geralt begins slowly, but his eyes are narrowing. Suspicious. Uncertain.

Jaskier says nothing.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Geralt shifts, propping one foot up on the rock and leaning his elbow against his knee as his body twists in Jaskier’s direction.

“It isn’t my place to say,” Jaskier whispers, glancing away.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“ _Geralt_ ,” he says back in exactly the same tone, now throwing a frustrated glare at his friend. “I’m serious... It isn’t my place...” There must be enough of a desperate edge to his tone because, grudgingly, Geralt drops it. He’s clearly still suspicious, but the tension that had been in his shoulders before actually begins to lessen.

Jaskier sighs and rests his head against the Witcher’s shoulder, sagging into him, and a strong arm reflexively circles his waist, and he thanks whatever gods are out there that he earned the trust of such a wonderful, amazing man.

~*~

Geralt goes to Yennefer’s tent that night. He seems torn at first, until Jaskier pushes him forward and claims he wants to slip away and see if he can warn the green dragon of the oncoming attack while everyone sleeps.

Once he’s gotten far enough away from the camp Jaskier shimmers and shifts, taking flight. He knows the general area the dragon’s lair is meant to be located in and he heads towards it, feeling invigorated, just like anytime he gets to stretch his wings after long bouts of human form.

He doesn’t make it, however, before a glimmering form comes rocketing into the air in front of him.

He squawks, wings beating frantically as he reels back, hovering in the air as the form halts and spreads itself wide against the night sky.

Borch’s golden scales sparkle beautifully in the moonlight, Jaskier can’t help but note, as the two dragons face each other. The golden dragon is about the same size as Jaskier, except a bit more solid with a shorter tail, the wings atop his back less aerodynamic, and a crown of horns growing along his head. His face is more rectangular shaped to Jaskier’s thin, triangular muzzle, and his claws are larger and more curved.

Borch is thicker, likely stronger, but Jaskier bets that he is faster.

“It is good to be airborne again, is it not?” Borch speaks to Jaskier as a dragon speaks to a dragon. Like his mother used to.

“It is certainly freeing,” Jaskier agrees, smiling, and Borch smiles back. “Glad to see you’re okay. You gave everyone quite the scare with that falling act back there.”

“I had to be cautious. I did not know who I could trust,” Botch replies as they both turn and fly side-by-side, Jaskier allowing the other dragon to lead their path towards the caves.

“Why are you on this hunt, Borch?” Jaskier questions, because he has been dying to ask for some time now.

“The green dragon...” a pause, sounding painful in the silence, before, “She is my mate.”

“You were protecting her,” Jaskier says, thinking he’s gotten his answer, but snaps his mouth shut with a click when Borch shakes his head.

“No. She was poisoned some time ago. She has been dead for...” but Borch can’t continue, tilting his head to look over the horizon instead, and Jaskier gives him his time. The only sound is the beat of their wings.

“But my egg...”

Jaskier startles, his claws curling up in surprise and his eyes widening. “You have a child?” And now he thinks about it, really thinks about it, about what must be going on. “The egg’s about to hatch, isn’t it? You can’t move it?”

Borch nods, solemn, and Jaskier releases a breath, blue fire puffing out.

They land in front of the cave in silence. Jaskier can smell Tea and Vea hiding somewhere within, but he cannot see them, so he pays them no mind. Instead his eyes fall on the body of a green dragon laid on the ground, curled around an egg, looking like she’s simply asleep.

He looks upon a mother, taken from her child by humans, and his vision blurs.

He raises a claw to wipe at his eyes, struggling to hold back what is mounting inside him, then tears his gaze away to face Borch. The gold dragon is watching him curiously.

“What do you need me to do?”

~*~

Turns out, not much.

Yennefer arrives first in the morning, huffing from a run, but halts the second she lays eyes on the fallen mother and her unhatched child.

All fight drains out of the sorceress then and relief floods Jaskier’s system.

A moment later Geralt is rushing in, sword drawn, Yennefer’s name on his lips. He stops too, though, when he realizes he doesn’t need to stop her anymore and his own eyes fall to the scene.

Tea and Vea make their appearance then, surprising Geralt and Yennefer, but then Jaskier is slipping into view, his blue-white scales catching the morning light slipping into the cave.

Yennefer immediately tenses further, but Geralt calms, his mind clearly working as he puts the pieces together.

“I suspect... Borch is a dragon, then?” the Witcher questions, lowering his blade as Jaskier moves closer to bump his snout against Geralt’s chest.

“Yeah. A gold one at that,” Jaskier smirks, then raises a claw to poke at Geralt’s shoulder until he swats it away. “’Don’t exist,’ huh?”

“Hmm...”

“Jaskier?” Yennefer questions, her whole face drawn and baffled as she looks upon the dragon, her hands spread like she’s ready to cast a spell but she isn’t sure what, yet.

Jaskier turns his head to her and smiles brightly. “Hello, Yennefer! Lovely to see you. Are you unwell? You look like you just swallowed a toad.”

It says something to the shock the witch must be in that she doesn’t have a witty comeback to throw at him.

When the light from the cave entrance is blotted out and Borch appears, having been scouting for the approaching hunting parties, Yennefer and Geralt are given the same rundown of events Jaskier had received the night prior.

When the Reavers appear and everyone has to change focus, Jaskier is hoping for an epic battle he will be able to twist into a new song. With three deadly women, two dragons, and one Witcher, however, the battle is over dishearteningly quick.

“I was kind of hoping for something more than that,” Jaskier mumbles as he picks up a corpse with his teeth and tosses it out of the cave.

“A quick battle is a good battle,” Vea says, also helping with the clean up, and Jaskier huffs.

“Yeah, but it’s harder to write good ballads with this,” he whines, clearly putting on a show, and the woman and her sister snort.

When the bodies are all removed, the dwarves have shown up, and Borch manages to bribe them with a few of his mate’s teeth - Jaskier has to look away as they’re removed, his stomach rolling - and then Jaskier joins Geralt, Borch, and Yennefer outside.

The space they find themselves in looks over the mountains, Borch back in his human form, while Jaskier has no qualms stretching out and letting the cool air blow over his scales. Occasionally, his tail flicks out and smacks at Geralt’s shins and the Witcher kicks it away or tries to step on it.

And then...

Well...

The secret is out, Borch dropping the truth of Geralt’s meddling with destiny on Yennefer like it is nothing, and Jaskier raises his head, alarmed. He can practically hear the cogs in the sorceress’s mind turning, putting it all together, followed quickly by her simmering, boiling fury.

Borch, smartly, gives them space as Yennefer’s steely glare turns on Geralt.

Jaskier hates, sometimes, when he’s right. Geralt should have told her a long time ago. Fuck, Jaskier should have told her, he was tied up in all this, too... but Geralt’s the one that made the wish. He’s the one who has to answer for this.

Jaskier doesn’t go as far away as Borch, but he does back off, moving down along the cliff and looking over the view as he waits.

When he glances back it is to find Borch speaking to Geralt again with Yennefer storming away, clambering up the rocks like they mean nothing to her.

Sighing, Jaskier goes after her.

He will return to Geralt soon, offer what comfort he can in the face of this apparent refusal, but he knows to give the man some space first.

The sorceress is raising her hand when he catches up to her, no one around, as she prepares to make a portal and flee to the other side of the entire Continent, likely, but Jaskier swiftly puts himself in front of her before she can.

“Move, you overgrown salamander,” Yennefer bares her teeth, and Jaskier arches a scaly brow. No point in small talk, he presumes.

“Do you love me?” he questions and the sorceress falters, her steps finally halting, as she looks at him. The laugh that bubbles out of her is cold and cruel.

“Spit it out, bard. What do you want?” she demands, crossing her arms and shifting back to look up at Jaskier’s face.

“The wish Geralt made... it tied all three of us together, not just the both of you,” he says seriously, neck curving so he can lower his head closer to her level. “Yeah, we’re all fated to be in each other’s lives for forever, but what that entails... that’s still up to you. Love is still a choice, even with destiny butting in, and there’s different kinds of love.”

“Do not tell me what to feel,” Yennefer snaps with such vicious fury it has Jaskier flinching back, startled, before he shakes his head and lowers himself down again.

“I’m not, I promise, I’m just...” Jaskier sighs, suddenly feeling defeated. “I’m just asking you to think about it... please?”

Yennefer stares at him, her violet eyes harsh and heavy, before she’s turning around, making a new portal, and stepping through it without a word.

~*~

Jaskier returns to Geralt’s side, silent as he approaches the lone man looking out over the mountains.

The dragon sits on his haunches beside The Witcher, looking out as well, and curls his long tail around them both, keeping them close together, for once without a word.

An unknown amount of time later Geralt moves, as if shaken from a trance, and Jaskier bends down to allow him to climb onto his back. With a few beats of his wings, Jaskier has them in the air and head back down the mountain, where they left Roach.

“Where to next?” Jaskier questions over the whistle of the wind.

Geralt is silent for a moment, hands grasping some of the spines that run down Jaskier’s back. They’ve flown together plenty before this, the feels all too natural.

“Cintra,” Geralt finally says, voice low. “We need to go to Cintra.”

~*~

Cintra falls to Nilfgaard’s forces.

Jaskier would have gotten himself and Geralt free from their cells a lot sooner, but the stone rooms had been so _small_. If he’d attempted a transformation he would have been crushed. Thus, he and Geralt had to wait until the city was under attack before they managed to get free.

It goes even further pear-shaped when they split up, Jaskier taking to the skies to follow Ciri while Geralt fetches Roach amongst the chaos.

The ball of fire and metal that comes whistling through the air explodes as it hits the white dragon. He hadn’t been paying attention, too focused on following the princess and her horse, and he shrieks as he plummets.

For a moment he is back in Kaer Morhen, a ballista bolt through his shoulder, motionless and weak as he lays amongst his dying friends. It smells the same, sounds the same, looks the same.

But it isn’t the same. He isn’t the same dragon that fled the Blue Mountains. He isn’t young and weak and feeble.

He is large and strong and _furious_.

Rising from the ground is a struggle with the way pain blossoms through his side, scales missing and revealing weak flesh, but he doesn’t care. He lashes out, slicing soldiers in half with his claws, skewering them on his horns, and flinging them through the air with his tail.

With a beat of his wings he rises again, looking down at the carnage and soldiers, growling deep as thunder, and opens his mouth.

The blue flames freeze upon impact, leaving a crater of ice spikes and frozen bodies. He turns and flies, raining his icy fury on the roads with echoing roars and shrieks.

He is the guardian of the fucking Blue Mountains and he will not be bested so easily.

~*~

“We need to hurry after the princess,” Jaskier whines, laid out in a clearing miles away from the burning remains of Cintra. Geralt crouches beside his draconic body, large hands gentle as they spread a dragon-friendly poultice on the burns across Jaskier’s flesh.

The bleeding from his wounds had, thankfully, slowed to a sluggish pour when he’d managed to get away from the city, and had just about stopped completely by the time Geralt found him.

Geralt just grunts at Jaskier now, not uttering a word since the initial “Fuck” upon seeing his injured friend.

“I’m healed enough, Geralt, we should go. Your Child Surprise is in danger,” Jaskier pushes, then shifts in attempt to stand, but collapses under his own weight, wings laid crookedly behind him.

“You’re not the self-sacrificing type,” Geralt finally, finally, speaks and Jaskier looks at him and his tight features.

“I’m also not the type to need patching up, usually. That’s suppose to be your job. Alas, it appears it is a day of role reversal,” Jaskier sighs dramatically, hoping to break whatever tension is building in Geralt’s body.

It doesn’t work, and if anything Geralt seems stiffer than before. Jaskier frowns, before sighing, resigning himself to his fate. They likely wouldn’t be able to properly chase after Cirilla until after Jaskier had healed enough, but once they did Jaskier was going to insist they take to the air to make up time.

Jaskier lays his head down, sagging and allowing his muscles to relax. He hurts all over. There hadn’t been any further fireballs to do him damage after the initial one, but that first one had packed a wallop. It didn’t help that white dragons weren’t fireproof like red, gold, or even green dragons. Dragon scales of all kinds were resistant to just about everything, but different types had slightly different make ups.

It didn’t help that so much of Jaskier’s scales had been blown off, too, leaving him vulnerable to arrows and swords.

“I _am_ doing better,” he whispers after a while and he’s pretty sure Geralt isn’t putting any new poultice on him but rather keeping his hands on the dragon’s skin as reassurance. For who, Jaskier isn’t sure.

“You need rest,” Geralt grunts, voice thick, and Jaskier snorts loudly to draw the Witcher’s attention. Slowly, Geralt moves from Jaskier’s side and crouches beside his head.

“And I will get some. Meditate. We’ll be fine,” he smiles, then presses up into Geralt’s hand when he lays it on his brow.

“We used to be the same size...” Geralt is suddenly muttering and Jaskier looks up at him, curious.

“You’re not one for nostalgia. What brought this on?”

“Ciri... Thinking about what we’ll do after we get her... Brought up old memories,” Geralt says so quietly Jaskier has to strain to hear him. When he works out what is said, the dragon offers a bittersweet smile.

“Meeting you was one of the best moments of my life. Just wish it had been under better conditions,” he admits, thinking back to the child left on the side of the road by a mother that wouldn’t be coming back. “I wish we could have found your mom, if just to knock some sense into her.”

“I had a mother,” Geralt shakes his head, his hand beginning to pet over Jaskier’s head, scratching lightly under his horns where it is hard to reach and making the dragon purr. “She was huge, scaly, and breathed ice.”

Jaskier releases a shaky breath, attempting to ignore the tears that spring to his eyes, and Geralt brushes them away. “She loved you so much,” Jaskier whimpers, shaking, and now Geralt is leaning down, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s.

“She loved you, too,” Geralt whispers back, curled around the dragon’s head.

Jaskier eventually falls asleep, weak from the battle, knowing he is safe so long as he has Geralt to look out for him.

~*~

The second Jaskier is well enough to, he throws Geralt onto his back and takes flight, leaving Roach in a stable they’ve paid a few days for.

They make up time quickly, rushing over the trees in search of the runaway princess.

“We’re getting close to Brokilon Forest,” Geralt comments a few days into their search.

“There are refuge camps nearby, look,” Jaskier says back, pointing off to the side with a claw where smoke is rising amongst the trees. Not from a blaze, but from campfires. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’s there instead. Or, at least, seen which way she went.”

Hopefully not towards the forest...

They circle around, landing nearby and allowing Jaskier to shift into a human. Geralt swiftly throws on his cloak, allowing Jaskier to tuck away his white hair in his hood, and then they’re hurrying off.

Time is not on their side, they are aware, and they have to hurry.

The camp is a sad affair, people running around, filthy, bloody, crying, fighting over food and water like animals.

“Even in chaos the rich abuse the poor,” Geralt snarls and, when Jaskier follows his glare, he sees a tent larger than the rest with a handful of servants milling about, bringing in food for some family. Jaskier can even see the glint of silverware when the flap to the camp blows a little wider.

“Fuck them,” Jaskier spits. Usually he would search those kinds of people out, but today he feels disgust and anger, his own clothes dulled to avoid detection amongst the refuges.

They mill around the camp, not taking any food or water, and asking after a child with long, blond hair and green eyes. Most don’t answer them at all, others look on sadly like they’ve heard similar lines of questioning all day, while some say they haven’t seen anyone like that.

“Come on. This was a waste of time,” Geralt snarls, taking ahold of Jaskier’s elbow and dragging him away. They make their own camp some ways away, eating dried meats - or raw in Jaskier’s case - and refilling their water skins in a running creek nearby.

“We’ll find her,” Jaskier swears, sitting on the cold ground, unbothered by the freezing temperatures. “First light, we’ll get back in the sky. Sniff around Brokilon.”

Geralt doesn’t answer, instead glaring at the measly fire they’ve made, and Jaskier sighs as he shifts closer and lays against the man’s side, draping over him like a blanket.

“We both need rest if we’re going to do that, big guy.”

Geralt sighs, but can’t argue with that, and they both try to settle in.

They must only get two hours of sleep when the screaming wakes them.

Geralt hardly hesitates to spring into action and rush back towards the refuge camp, sword drawn, while Jaskier shifts and follows after from the air. The camp is under attack and, as selfish as it is to consider, it may mean that Nilfgaard, if these are Nilfgaardian attackers, is following Ciri through there.

They are in no way equipped to save an entire camp, but Geralt still attempts to fight off some of the attackers as Jaskier circles from above. He has to maneuver around a few arrows, but this is hardly the military forces that attacked him before.

Through the smoke and fire Jaskier’s sharp eyes don’t see any striking spots of blond, though. No small girl fleeing for her life. Well, other than the one slipping out of the nobles’ tent and-- wait, what?

Jaskier twists back around, watching as a single, small figure breaks free from the large tent he had sneered at before and bolts, not hesitating or looking around for anyone she may know.

Jaskier’s brows furrow in confusion and he flies back towards Geralt.

Ice covers the space around the Witcher, fending off any immediate attacks, and Jaskier lands heavily beside the white-haired man. “Saw a kid running off, but I couldn’t tell if it was Ciri or not!” Jaskier yells over the chaos and Geralt, looking grim with his pitch black eyes, nods, running and leaping onto Jaskier’s back.

“Show me,” he orders and Jaskier takes back to the air.

He flies low to the trees now, following the path he had last seen the child. A group of attackers are also there, seemingly making chase, and Jaskier freezes them solid.

“See anything?” Jaskier calls back, because a Witcher using a Cat potion has even better eye sight than a dragon.

For a moment, no answer, Geralt simply leaning forward and scanning the ground as they fly over, but then his arm is shooting out and pointing. “There!” he snaps and, despite not seeing anything initially, Jaskier takes off where shown.

When he gets closer, however, Jaskier can see the two, small figures, too.

Two?

Whatever, it looked like they were helping each other, so Jaskier was fine with it. And it’s not like they’d be very heavy...

He swoops, wings tucking in as he weaves through tightly growing trees, and wraps his front hands around both children, ignoring their shrieks as he rises back into the air.

Once they are far enough away, both from the refuge camp and Brokilon Forest, Jaskier starts looking for a clearing to land in. When he does, he carefully hovers over the ground, releasing the children, then moving to land beside them.

Geralt, immediately, slides off his back and moves towards the frightened forms, who are staring at them like they want to run, but know it won’t do anything.

One of them is a dark-skinned elf, and Jaskier knows he’s an elf because his hat tumbled off when they landed. Jaskier suspects that when the shock wears off he will freak out over that, but...

The other is a girl, with big, green eyes, and hair that is so filthy it is difficult to tell the original color. But, if Jaskier looks really close, he is certain he sees blond.

Suddenly, the elf is up and pointing a small knife at Geralt, stopping his approach short. The kid is no threat, but they don’t want to frighten the children any further.

“Calm yourself, friend,” Jaskier says lowly, but he doesn’t move any closer either. “We aren’t here to hurt you. My name is Jaskier. What’s yours?”

The boy and girl glance at each other, shaken and uncertain, until another wave of bravery washes over the boy and he stands a little straighter.

“Dara,” he says, trying for strong, but his voice shakes.

“Nice to meet you, Dara,” Jaskier bows his head in greeting. Amid this conversation, Geralt’s eyes have begun to fade back to gold and his entire focus is on the girl. Likewise, the girl now seems transfixed by the Witcher.

Slowly, with measured steps, the girl sets her hand on Dara’s arm, moving past him a few steps.

“Are...” she begins, but has to stop to clear her throat. “Are you... Geralt?”

Geralt nods, once, and it is like a spell is broken, the young girl abruptly lurching forward and sprinting at him. He crouches down, arms coming out, and catches the girl as she collides into him, holding her close and tight.

“Hello, Cirilla,” Jaskier hears Geralt mumble into her hair and he smiles, warmth flooding his own chest.

He looks up at a clearly startled Dara and offers a smile. “We have a lot to catch up on,” he says, then moves towards the embraced duo. His eyes stay on the elven boy. “You getting in on this or what?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as his tail comes curling out and around Dara, pulling him forwards until Ciri is reaching out blindly at him and pulling him into the hug, too.

Jaskier grins a little brighter at the elf’s wide-eyed shock, then he curls his wings and tail around them all and presses his nose to Ciri’s hair, snuffling, learning her scent.

These children were now under his and Geralt’s protection.

He wondered - he hoped - that his mother would be proud of him.

~*~

“Is he talking to his horse?” Ciri hisses, days later, as she and Dara sit on either side of Jaskier at their campsite. Their plan was to get the kids to Kaer Morhen for safety and training, but that was a ways away. In addition, they’d need to take plenty of detours to avoid wandering eyes.

At least they’d gotten Roach back, now, which was helping with Geralt’s every-growing bad mood.

“He does that,” Jaskier shrugs, as a human, tuning his lute casually. Dara had asked him to show him a few chords once he’d learned the dragon was a bard and who was Jaskier to deny an eager student?

It was different, having two children suddenly with them, and he suspected it would only get weirder as they became more and more comfortable with each other. Jaskier was very impressed with Ciri’s handling of discovering Dara to be an elf, but the boy still wore his hat majority of the time.

Likewise, Dara had seemed anxious but accepting when he found out who Ciri was.

They both kept sharing one pair of gloves, though, which Jaskier didn’t understand.

“Can he understand her?” Dara asks, head tilting, and Jaskier snorts.

“Nah, he’s just a big weirdo,” he says, earning quiet chuckles from the kids.

“What was that?” Geralt calls, with a tone that says he knows exactly what has been said and would like it if they shut up right about now. Ciri and Dara quickly snap their mouths shut, stiffening, but Jaskier has no such issue.

“I SAID YOU WERE A BIG WEIRDO!” he screams back at his friend, laughing wildly when Geralt chucks a piece of stale bread at his head. Beside him, the kids release quiet, hesitant laughs as well.

~*~

“Can I get a new knife?” Ciri asks when they finally manage to find a village they can stay in, all with an inn and a marketplace. 

At the moment, Geralt is off, checking for any monster issues he can handle while Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara wait in their rented room. Ciri and Dara sit side-by-side on one bed while Jaskier sits on another, going over a few new songs before he plans to go down and perform.

“A new knife?” Jaskier repeats, looking up at her in confusion.

“The one Geralt gave me is too heavy to use,” Ciri grumbles, pulling out the hefty knife as if to show Jaskier exactly what she means.

Jaskier arches a brow at that, before looking back at his lyrics. “Did you ask Geralt?”

“He said no. Said this one would build strength,” Ciri pouts.

“Then why are you asking me?”

There’s silence for a moment and Jaskier thinks he’s won, until Dara opens his mouth and offers, “Because you’re the cool one?”

The literal only reason Ciri doesn’t end up with a new knife that very evening is because Geralt runs into Jaskier while he is glancing through the marketplace and drags him back to the inn with an eye roll.

~*~

Two towns later they are able to afford both a room as well as baths. It’s a small inn, not too special, but it has a washroom where guests can’t rent out blocks of time to clean up.

Ciri’s gets her’s first, followed by Dara, and then Geralt is dragging Jaskier into the washroom with him.

It has almost become a ritual, the both of them taking care of each other in the bath. Usually it is Geralt that receives the majority of Jaskier’s care, since he’s the one off getting bloodied up in contracts, but given the opportunity Geralt will return the favor with vigor.

Even before they started this relationship of theirs, seeing each other nude had never been an issue for them, and joking around or wrestling in lakes, streams, or tubs was pretty natural.

Jaskier is in the middle of scrubbing his nails through Geralt’s hair when the man begins to speak.

“Ciri asked who Yennefer is,” he says, so suddenly Jaskier doesn’t even realize what’s been said until a few seconds later.

“I’m sorry... what?” Jaskier questions, fingers stopping momentarily before he goes back to his work on Geralt’s hair. “How the hell does she know about Yennefer?”

“She doesn’t. Not really,” Geralt replies slowly. “She has magic, but a kind I’ve never seen before. I think she can tell Yennefer is tied to us.”

“What did you tell her?” Jaskier questions, loosening some knots in Geralt’s hair as he goes.

“The truth,” Geralt shrugs, noncommittal, and Jaskier huffs. “She’ll likely go to you with similar questions, though.”

“You do leave a lot to be desired when it comes to answering questions,” Jaskier snorts, then bends down to press a kiss to Geralt’s cheek to show how he’s teasing. Geralt simply hums and sinks back into Jaskier’s treatments, listening in silence as Jaskier titters on about everything and nothing.

Later, after Geralt helps Jaskier with his own bath, they return to their room to find Ciri and Dara speaking in hushed tones with each other. They quiet down when the men arrive and Jaskier gives them a look while Geralt moves over to their bags, unconcerned.

“Everything alright?” the dragon asks.

“Everything’s fine!” Dara immediately assures, his fingers twitching and fidgeting, but Ciri isn’t going to hold back. She’s a brave, blunt little lady.

“Are you two in love?” she demands, not even waiting for Dara to finish, and Jaskier’s brows shoot up into his fringe. That... was not the question he had been expecting.

Geralt has also stilled, standing back up from their bag, and looking back at the children with a quiet expression.

“W-well, Ciri,” Jaskier stutters, words failing him, but Geralt steps into the rescue.

“Yes, of course,” Geralt grunts, like it is the most obvious thing in the world, and Jaskier’s neck pops when his head whips around to look at the Witcher.

Blue eyes wide with shock meet calm gold, Jaskier’s mouth working but no sound coming out, and slowly a smirk begins to pull at Geralt’s lips. It was honest, Geralt meant every word, but he was definitely taking great enjoyment out of Jaskier’s reaction.

The dragon’s shoulder’s loosen and, in his amazed bafflement, a smile begins to spread on his face, open and happy and loving.

Just like that, huh?

“See? Told you,” Ciri hisses to Dara, who apparently has another burst of his occasional courage.

“Really? Then why don’t you two kiss?” the elf demands with the worldly certainty of a child.

Geralt glances over at him, shrugs, then stalks towards Jaskier. The dragon stands a little straighter, moving one foot back, and raising a finger in warning. “Ohh, no. No, no, no, Geralt of Rivia, don’t you-- MMPH!”

He’s cut off as his world tilts, a large hand on his hip, a strong arm around his shoulders, tipping him backwards as the Witcher swoops in for a deep, loud, soul-sucking kiss.

Somewhere in the room two voices cry out in protest, squirming to cover their eyes and demand the men stop, and Jaskier is pretty sure Ciri chucks a pillow at them, but he doesn’t care even a tiny bit.

He may very well be in heaven.

He’s brought back up slowly, to keep from getting dizzy, his head against a solid chest, arms keeping him upright. “Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier gasps, breathless and starry-eyed. He doesn’t even care that Geralt looks so smug.

“Figured you’d appreciate the dramatics,” Geralt rumbles so only he can hear, making Jaskier’s legs jelly.

“Oh, I did,” Jaskier growls back, but he stops himself from going any further. “We do still have an audience, however...” Geralt hums, understanding but not happy about it, nosing at his neck, before stepping away and going back to their bags. Jaskier, in the meantime, turns back to the two children and smirks.

“Answer all your questions?” he says as Dara looks to be attempting to merge with the pillow pressed to his face and Ciri is sticking her tongue out in retribution.

~*~

It wouldn’t be accurate to say they found Yennefer, or even that Yennefer found them. It was more like Yennefer popped out of fuck-knows-where, bleeding and weak, and they’d immediately rushed to help her.

They’d set up camp while checking over the sorceress, wrapping wounds and pouring water through her lips.

Eventually, Geralt goes to hunt, leaving Jaskier to run his cold hands over Yennefer’s fever-warm face, Ciri and Dara only able to sit and watch on, until Geralt returns and they can, at least, help prep the food.

When Yennefer awakes, it is Ciri’s turn to bring her a new washcloth for her forehead and the two stare at each other, not a word spoken, but something passing between them.

Then Yennefer is looking around, getting her bearings, and her gaze falls on a very stiff Geralt. Her eyes harden, Geralt swallows, and Jaskier takes pity on them.

The dragon rises, then crouches at the sorceress’s side, laying a cold hand against her cheek. It is still warm, but not as bad as before. She still sighs at the contact.

“We’ll talk later. For now, rest is a pretty good idea. I mean... trust me. You need your beauty sleep after how we found you,” he says and Yennefer, in a surprising show of strength, slaps his leg hard enough to sting. He flinches and she smirks, before shutting her eyes and going back to sleep.

When she’s strong and lucid enough, they explain to her everything that’s happened and her eyes keep lingering on Ciri. Two days after her appearance, Yennefer is able to stand on her own again and, with as commanding a voice as ever, orders Geralt to come and speak with her in private.

Jaskier, back in dragon form, allows the children to recline against his side, Dara attempting to practice the chords Jaskier taught him on Filavandrel’s lute while Ciri tries to perfect a knife trick she’d been working on.

“Are they going to be okay?” Ciri asks after a while of waiting. Jaskier raises his head and listens, making sure he can still hear the steady heartbeats of the Witcher and the sorceress just off from their camp. They appear to just be talking.

“They’ll be fine. They have a lot of baggage to sort out, is all. Dreadful adult stuff. You’d hate it,” Jaskier hums, laying his head back down to rest.

Later, when the kids are asleep, Geralt returns, alone.

“She leave?” Jaskier questions as Geralt joins him on their bedrolls, pushed against each other beside the fire.

“Yeah, but... She said she’d join us in Kaer Morhen later to help Ciri and Dara with their magic,” Geralt explains with a half shrug, arms curling around Jaskier to pull him close.

“Both of them?” Jaskier asks, surprised.

“Dara’s an elf. He has the capability for some magic, at the very least,” Geralt hums.

“Do you think she knows what kinds of powers Ciri has? Magic training will be spectacular, but if we know nothing about what that little girl can do, it could pose a problem.”

Geralt sighs, nuzzling into the chest fuzz poking out of Jaskier’s partially opened chemise before he replies. “She mentioned magical ‘Sources’ and that she would go and do some research of her own.”

Jaskier nods, running his fingers up and down Geralt’s back idly, before he’s asking, softer, “Are you two okay?”

The Witcher releases a long, deep breath, deflating with the action. “We will be... We’ll have work to do. Get to know each other properly.”

“Actually go on a date,” Jaskier hums, snorting when Geralt pinches him. “I’m glad to hear you’re at least on your way to redemption,” he tacks on, more honest, and Geralt’s nuzzling moves up to his neck.

“As am I,” the man mumbles, warm and content for the first time in a long time. “Get some sleep, Jask.” And so he does.

~*~

The hug Vesemir gives Jaskier when they arrive in Kaer Morhen is bone crushing. Eskel, after that, is no different. Lambert Jaskier has to approach and hug first, but the returned squeeze is tight and desperate. So many words said without being said.

Kaer Morhen hurts to be inside, but less than it once would have been. Some repair efforts have been made and the stench of fire and death is long gone, but it still carries the scars.

Seems kind of poetic, considering its inhabitants.

Ciri is welcomed into the keep warmly and she takes to the rough and tumble life-style quickly. Dara takes to it alright, but when Ciri is excitedly being taught how to spar or wield a sword, the elf goes to the library or tracks down Jaskier for more music lessons.

“I’ll have to take you to Oxenfurt one day,” the dragon says at one point and Dara’s excited smile, the first Jaskier had ever seen on the boy, is completely worth it.

Ciri also takes to magic... less quickly than swords, but still better than anyone expected. She and Dara take lessons with Yennefer in the library at first, but then they start talking of setting up times in the year where they can stay with her and learn. It won’t be for a while, but it is in the works.

Sometimes, after these lessons, Yennefer goes off to talk with Geralt, staying true in their efforts to get to know each other. Other times she and Jaskier end up on the battlements, wine in hand, debating over the most pointless of things.

Jaskier learns how to be in the Blue Mountains again. It feels odd, suddenly being back. He and Geralt never, explicitly, spoke of his return, but they both felt like now, if not ever, would be his time.

He goes flying, familiarizing himself once more with the terrain.

With his territory.

Sometimes someone joins him, riding on his back. Usually one of the kids, but sometimes a Witcher, wanting to catch up and also check for any monsters. If it is Geralt they are always out the latest, returning to sly smirks from Eskel and Lambert.

Ciri, often times, asks the adults for stories, both about the keep and about themselves. Jaskier gives the best stories, of course, especially when they’re about one of the other Witchers.

“Did I tell you about the time Lambert called me a puppy?” he begins, looking down at the young girl’s big, eager eyes.

“I WAS _FOUR!_ ” Lambert’s outraged yell can be heard from down the hall and princess and dragon quickly flee, giggling all the way.

Jaskier also stays in Kaer Morhen now. There is no cave for him to inhabit within reasonable range, and even if there were, he wouldn’t want it. Not when he gets to curl up in his and Geralt’s quarters, warm and safe, showering his love with affection every chance he gets.

It feels like things are truly piecing together the way they were always meant to be.

~*~

“Hello, mother.”

Jaskier swallows, standing at the mouth of a cave that once was so familiar to him. The frozen structure before him hasn’t melted, looking like crystal, with the faint, shadowy outline of a mighty beast within.

If Jaskier looks hard enough, he can see the outline of his mother’s wings and tail.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around in...” he takes a rattling breath and a large hand lays on his side, running over his scales in a show of comfort. “In... a long time. I was scared... Scared to see you... Scared I wouldn’t... live up to what you wanted of me.”

Geralt presses a little closer to Jaskier’s flank, not saying a word, just reinforcing his support.

“I still dream about you, sometimes. About you teaching me to fly or all your lessons on protecting our Witchers... About you dying...” Jaskier swallows, the tears rolling from his eyes dripping down his snout, his muscles shaking. 

“But... I’m not afraid anymore. Uh, well, I am, but...” he looks back outside the cave, at the rolling, familiar mountains. At the spires of Kaer Morhen without their flags, reaching up just between the peaks beside them. He looks away and down at Geralt, their gaze locking, and Jaskier softens.

“I have more important things here than my fears, so... I guess I’m back. To protect our family...” He shudders through a roll of tears, before leaning down and pressing his face up against Geralt, feeling blunt nails scratch over his cheek.

They stand there, amongst the ice, pressed close together for a long time. Jaskier isn’t sure how long, but when they finally separate the sun is setting outside. Jaskier sighs.

“We need to get going,” he whispers, standing and moving forward, pressing his face against the smooth, crystalline ice in reverence. “I’ll come by again. I promise. Might bring these two kids with me to meet you. You’d really like them,” he chokes off another sob, trying to compose himself at least a little.

“I love you. I miss you,” he whispers, pressing harder to the ice, before stepping back and away.

Geralt, still at his side, moves forward and lays his own hand against the ice. Quietly, so barely even Jaskier can hear, The Witcher whispers, “Goodnight, mother,” and then they are both turning away, leaving the cave, and heading back to their vibrant, loving family.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed the read! Let me know what you thought! Comments are my life blood
> 
> Inspirational Song: [Scarborough Fair - Dan Avidan & Super Guitar Bros.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ABokQpjvELU)


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